The Circles: Book 1: The Triumph of the Shadow
by Angmar's Elfhild
Summary: Co-written by Angmar and Elfhild. The West loses the War of the Ring and the proud city of Minas Tirith falls to the forces of the Dark Lord. Two peasant girls, twin sisters Elfhild and Elffled, are captured by orcs in a preliminary raid against Rohan. Their world destroyed, their fate uncertain, they face the bleak prospects of slavery at the hands of their enemies.
1. News From the King

**_"The Circles" is a series of alternative universe novels intended for mature readers, for many of the books deal with themes such as war, death, and slavery. There is also the occasional steamy scene. *winks* If reading about any of these things bothers you, "The Circles" might not be the story for you._**

Chapter Written by Elfhild

_The 6th day of March in the year 3019 of the Third Age under the Sun_

The eastern sky was afire in golden white light as the sun began her daily journey across the wide girth of the heavens, ever looking down upon the endless leagues of the world. Everywhere in the Eastfold of the fair land of the Riddermark were the harbingers of spring: the once barren branches of trees were laden with buds and the endless sea of grasslands began to rise and become steadily greener, snowy flowers dotting the emerald meads like the hoary caps of waves. The air was filled with the smell of growing things and the sounds of birds singing their welcome praises to the sun, who had finally chased away the dark and dreary night of winter. The warm shafts of liquid gold spread out as the moments of dawn passed, touching gently upon the endless plains and rolling hills, the silent forest of Everholt to the east and the wooded hills to the south which rose steadily higher until they became the vague dark snow-capped shapes of the White Mountains far in the distance.

The straw-thatched roof of the little house shone golden yellow in the soft light of the early morning, and all around the garth, chickens scratched the ground, cocks crowing proudly and hens cackling happily. Beneath a large oak tree beside the house, a yellow-haired maiden milked a cow. The sound of two streams of fresh milk rhythmically hitting the bucket created a lively tune in that early March morning. Every now and then, the cow would look back towards the little house, fretting about her calf, which remained in a small pen inside. Lost in daydreams which flitted through her mind like butterflies in a flower-filled meadow, the girl dreamily hummed the strains of a cheerful melody as she milked, her head leaning against the cow.

He was a tall young man, strapping and brawny, with a chest like a stone wall and arms as strong as the anvil upon which he pounded red hot iron into tools and knives, sending up showers of white sparks. His skin was ruddy, that is when it was not covered with soot and perspiration, and he had wavy hair of burnished gold which he wore in braids. His eyes were blue, and not just light blue, but a piercing shade of azure, like the crisp and defined color of the autumn sky. Indeed, his face reminded her of October, for his bright eyes shone out from his ruddy face like the brilliance of the sky peering out amid the flaming leaves of autumn. She sighed deeply, her heart feeling as though it would burst, and even if it did, she would not care, for she would be borne away to the halls of her fathers on a gentle breeze made of pure bliss.

A sharp tug to the loose, messy braid that hung down her back brought her back to the waking world. "Elfhild! At the rate you are going, the milk will be curdled ere you ever finish!" exclaimed the voice of a youth in the language of the Rohirrim, a tongue deep and rich. "Thinking about the Isensmith's son again? You shall not make Osric a good wife, for you would gawk at him all day like that and he would surely starve to death!"

Her freckled cheeks rosy with embarrassment, Elfhild quickly turned around and glared at her older brother. "Eadfrid! 'Tis not polite to sneak up on people! And quit talking about Osric – your heart is like a cold stone and you know naught of the matters of love!" she scolded sternly. Her response was in the same sonorous language in which her brother had spoken, for the people of the Riddermark seldom used the Common Tongue of the West except when they had dealings with Gondorians or men from other lands.

Eadfrid stood looking down at her, his features set in a teasingly arrogant expression. "Ha! If I were as addle-brained about all the pretty girls as you are about Osric, I will spend my time daydreaming on the battlefield and surely an orc arrow would find my heart!" Though he had never even seen a battlefield, he imagined himself as a brave warrior just aching to be tried in the heat of the fight.

"How very somber and gloomy!" Elfhild remarked. "You speak as does an old man! Where has your spirit gone? The fancies and joys of youth?" she asked, her blue eyes squinting slightly as she spoke, her voice filled with passion. "You fill your mind with thoughts of death and battles, but I prefer to think about love and peace." Though the threat of war was always upon the Rohirrim and when there was battle, they delighted in it, considering it sport, Elfhild preferred not to think about such things, for when there was fighting, the men rode away and the women were left alone.

"Talking neither gets the cow milked nor the well dug," a quiet voice murmured drolly. Elfhild and Eadfrid both turned towards the direction of the house. From out of the dim recesses of the partition in which the animals slept and supplies and tools were stored another girl appeared, carrying a basket half-filled with eggs. She was identical to Elfhild in appearance for they were twins, and just like her older sister, Elffled had straight hair the color of straw, sky blue eyes and a heart-shaped face with a splash of ginger-colored freckles across her nose and cheeks.

However, despite their identical appearances, Elffled and her sister had very difficult personalities. Elffled was a quiet, shy girl, while Elfhild had a more gregarious disposition. She was fond of talking, and doing so often. This trait, matched with a strong stubborn streak, often got her in trouble with her parents. It was during these times that Elffled sat back and gloated at her sister's displeasure, all the while smiling sweetly at Mother and Father. Though their parents loved all three of their children equally, both sisters vied for their parents' attention, Elfhild by hard work and diligence, and Elffled by dulcet words spoken from a honeyed tongue. The two squabbled as much as they gossiped with each other, and were enemies as much as friends.

"I am off to the woodpile to fetch the eggs laid by that silly hen who has made her nest between it and the scraggly bush," Elffled said smugly as she left her sister and brother, a certain subtle lightness in her steps at the self-righteous thoughts of catching sluggards busy in their idleness.

Eadfrid shrugged and the handle of the pick slung against his shoulder shifted slightly. "Well, Father is probably in a quandary no doubt as to where I am, wondering if he is to dig our well all by himself. I go now to do an honest man's work," he grinned proudly, looking remarkably similar to one of the roosters who strutted over to scratch beneath the oak tree, "not sit around and daydream like certain silly maids." He eyed Elfhild sternly, and she made a face, sticking out her tongue. Shaking his head, he sauntered off. "Sisters! Bah!" he spat with disgust.

In the past, the family had gotten their water from a spring between the two small hills behind the house, but the small stream often became a mere trickle during the hottest weeks of an uncommonly dry summer. Therefore, Elfhild's father had decided to dig a well near the house so they would always have an abundant supply of water. The largest creek nearby was a short distance away, running out from between two larger hills and traveling towards the Mering Stream.

Elfhild and her family were poor peasants and did not own much; not even their own lands. However, this lack of wealth hampered their happiness little. They had a horse, a cow, several chickens and a pig. They always had plenty of milk and eggs, and the twins' father and brother would hunt small game and deer. In the fall, the pig would be slaughtered, and the calf might find that fate as well, or be perhaps traded for something else at one of the market days in the nearby village of Grenefeld.

A small orchard of a few scattered fruit trees grew in the fields on either side of the lane that led to the little thatched-roof house. In the late summer and fall, the apples would become ripe, their green skin turning to spotty red, the sour bitterness of earlier in the season being replaced by a sweet and delicious flavor. Bees always buzzed about the bases of the trees, attracted by the fallen apples, and oft a bare foot was stung if one was not careful. Vegetables, milk, cheese and butter were stored in the root cellar that had been dug in the side of the hill behind the house.

The twins' father and brother would help other peasant farmers tend to their crops in payment for allowing them to borrow oxen to plough their fields, and for use of the farmers' bulls when the cow was in heat. The family would often work for others in exchange for wool, thread, thimbles and other things which they needed, and chickens and vegetables were traded for other supplies. The sisters and their mother would spin the wool into thread and weave clothing for the family, and the girls often gathered herbs in the copses of trees which grew upon one of the two small hills behind the house; some herbs to add seasoning to broths, some such as yarrow to staunch the blood from a cut or to relieve the pain of a toothache, and others such as lady's bedstraw and lavender to ward off fleas in their house and make the straw smell sweeter.

Life so far had been good to the twins. Their parents loved them and they had many friends in the small village. Their father, Eadbald, was a man serious and sensible by nature, but his blue eyes would crinkle up in laughter when his heart was filled with mirth. Though he could be stern at times, his daughters were rather skilled at wheedling and usually got their own way. There was nothing that Eadbald would not do for his beloved daughters, and, consequentially, they were rather spoilt. The girls idolized their father. He was their hero and there was nothing that he could not do, at least in their eyes.

His wife was Athelthryth, a hard-working woman who was good-natured, cheerful and kind. She had a fiery temper, though, and they often quarreled with each other. However, their love for each other had never diminished in the years of their marriage. Having wed at a rather young age, she had always treated her children as friends, never belittling them as some adults are wont to do. When they were younger, she had played with them after all of the farm chores were finished. She made the girls soft, sweet-faced dolls and crafted dresses for them from leftover scraps of material. Using wooden swords which Eadbald had whittled, she sparred with Eadfrid just like one of the boys. When the children had grown older, she advised them and gave them encouragement when they were sad.

Eadfrid was, well... Eadfrid. Like most older brothers, he loved to tease, taunt, torment and terrorize his little sisters. They were an endless source of amusement. How comical they looked when they were indignant and outraged about some heinous "crime" that he had committed, like sneaking up behind one of them and pushing her into a stream, or pulling their braids, or dropping a slimy, squirmy earthworm down the back of their dresses! Like most siblings, the three fought like cats and dogs. However, Eadfrid truly loved his little sisters and would never hesitate to protect them if they were in danger or avenge them if someone hurt or slandered them.

Her milking finished, Elfhild rose from her stool, a section of log from a tree which had been hewn down from one of the hills behind their home and made into firewood. Walking back to the house, she set the milk bucket upon the straw-covered floor of well-packed dirt and retrieved a crock and a piece of muslin. After straining the milk by pouring it through the cloth, Elfhild carried the now full crock out of the house and into the root cellar. Closing the door behind her, she stepped back out into the warm sunlight.

The birds sang and the sun shone and all the world was bright and cheerful with the sudden birth of spring and the promise of summer. Then the light of the sun was dimmed slightly by a passing cloud and a chill breeze blew from the east. Elfhild shivered and her footsteps hastened towards the house. Her mother was working on the plant bed, and Elfhild knew she would want her and her sister to help.

The faint sound of hoof-beats could be heard - a horse was coming steadily nearer upon the road, galloping at a fast pace. Elfhild lingered by the oak tree, her eyes studying the north. Soon, she was able to espy a fast-moving horse. Strange, she thought, for their household was the furthest east upon this road. Perhaps it was a lost kinsman of one of the families who lived towards the west, she reasoned, but then the rider turned into the lane leading to the home of the Eadbaldings.

The rider was soon lost to her sight, for from this vantage point, she could not see the front of the house. The man's arrival was greeted by the sound of the barking of Brúwann, the family's brown and white spotted hound, but the dog's voice seemed happy and not fearful or protective. Curious, Elfhild abandoned the tree and walked around the side, where she saw her mother and sister speaking with the rider. The man was one of her own people; perhaps one of the young men from the village. Elfhild breathed a sigh of relief - for a moment she had felt anxious, because in the summer of the year before, there had been rumors of fell black riders thundering through the Wold and East Emnet. No one had known what they were, and all had fled before their coming, fearing that war with the East followed in the wake of their galloping steeds.

Elfhild emerged from the side of the house and began to walk over to where her mother and sister were standing, but when her mother saw her, she bid her stop and fetch Eadbald and Eadfrid. Her mind trying to sort out this strange new mystery, Elfhild turned and retraced her footsteps to the tree, where she saw her father and brother walking towards her, haste in their steps. She called out to them, telling them that her mother had summoned them and that a rider had stopped at their house. They told her that they had heard the sound of an approaching horse and then silence and soon after had abandoned the well to see what the matter was.

Elfhild followed her father and brother, and soon the whole family was gathered together to listen to the news this rider brought. "I bring tidings from the West!" the young man proclaimed. "Saruman declared war upon the Mark, but has been defeated! Ten days ago, on the 25th of February, there was battle at the Fords with orc-men from Isengard and in this battle Théodred was slain. Then four days ago, King Théoden and the men of Edoras rode out from the city to assail Saruman, but a great force set out from Isengard and the men holding the Fords were worsted. Hearing word of this, the King and his men then rode to Helm's Deep. The orc-men of Isengard and the Dunlendings advanced, burning the Westfold and soon besieging the Deep. Then two days ago, Théoden led a charge out of the Deep and Erkenbrand's men attacked from the side."

The man paused to catch his breath, and then began to speak again, looking somewhat skeptical. "This is the message the king's herald bid me to take, strange though it may be," he said with a tone of disbelief in his voice. "It is said that during the siege, a forest of giant trees grew up in the Deeping Coomb, and the retreating orc-men sought shelter beneath their boughs. This unusual forest disappeared as quickly as it had come, and with it went all the orc-men."

The Eadbaldings looked amongst themselves. Elfhild and her mother glanced at each other with wide eyes, both recalling the legends of old which told of giant tree-people. Eadfrid and Elffled did not quite believe the story and regarded it with raised eyebrows and doubt like the rider. Eadbald, however, waited with anticipation for the rider to continue so he could learn more of the happenings in the west. When her thoughts returned back to the tidings which the young man had brought, Elfhild shook her head in disgust at the betrayal of the White Wizard. Saruman was once a friend of the Mark! The trust of an entire land was broken by a double-minded wizard of wicked heart.

The rider cleared his throat, and all attention was turned back towards him. "After the battle," the man began again, "the king and his escort went to Isengard to parley with Saruman. Messengers were sent out to bring news of the victory and to bid all able-bodied men to assemble in Edoras the second day after the full moon, the 10th of March. An éored composed of men from Grenefeld and the surrounding lands and villages is being mustered at the thegn's manor in preparation to ride to Edoras."

"Assembly in Edoras!" exclaimed Eadbald. "Do you know if war stirs in the East, as it did in the West?"

An apologetic look came over the young man's face. "I regret to say that I do not know. All I know is what the king's herald told the thegn, and what the thegn told me. But perhaps when we ride to Edoras, we shall learn more."

Eadbald and the rider exchanged a few words, and then the rider gave his farewells, bid the family good day, and then was off just as quickly as he had come.

When the retreating form of the rider grew small upon the horizon, Athelthryth turned to Eadbald, asking with concern in her voice, "What do you think of this? Do you think there will be war with the East?" Her brow wrinkled in concern, she worried her lower lip.

"Oh, I hope not!" cried Elfhild, horrified. "Perhaps the King only wants to take number of his men, for there was just a war," she suggested hopefully, but doubt filled her heart.

"I do not know," Eadbald said sadly, shaking his head, "but it seems the threat grows more and more. We have defeated one foe, but another more perilous encroaches upon our borders. Many of the wandering tribes to the North have abandoned the East Emnet because of the forays of the orcs from across the river. They steal our horses and take captive our people, yet we are not at open war with the Enemy. Perhaps this is a harbinger of evil to come, and our lands shall be attacked - or those of Gondor. But perhaps naught will come to pass, and after the assembly, I shall return in peace."

"Oh, Father!" Elfhild cried, and she ran to embrace him, clutching him tightly about the middle.

Eadbald gently stroked his daughter's hair and rubbed her back comfortingly. "Oh, Elfhild, do not worry - whatever shall be, I will come back," he tried reassure her, but there was a slight quaver in his voice.

Elfhild raised her head, looking up into her father's face. Tears were in her eyes, and she held him even tighter. "I love you," she whispered, laying her head on his chest.

Elffled slipped around to her sister's side. "Please come back to us," she pleaded softly, embracing both father and sister.

"I will, my daughters," he repeated. "When the King gives us all leave to return to our homes, I will ride back like the wind!" He chuckled lightly and squeezed his daughters in a tight embrace, and they smiled amid their tears.

When his sisters had stepped away from their father, Eadfrid approached him, his face tense with determination. "Father, pray let me ride with you!" he begged earnestly. "I am good with bow and blade, and mayhap one of the villagers would allow me to borrow one of their horses, for we have only Thunorlic, and he is too old to carry two."

"Aye, my son, you shall ride with me," Eadbald beamed in pride and put his arm around the youth's shoulders, drawing him to himself. "Come, let us saddle up Thunorlic, and then we shall go to the village!" He patted his son's back affectionately and then stepped away.

"Oh, Eadfrid!" the sisters cried, almost in unison. The pair rushed towards Eadfrid, each in her turn hugging him; Elffled smothering his face with kisses when she got her chance.

"Why, I have not even returned in victory and already the maidens throw themselves upon me!" Eadfrid laughed as he mussed his sisters' hair, yet his eyes glittered with tears which he could not hide.

Whilst their children laughed and cried, Eadbald and Athelthryth stood slightly apart from them and talked with one another in hushed tones, expressing the worries they had, whispering softly lest their children overhear and become afraid. They withheld the fullness of their fear from one another, even though they both knew the terrified thoughts which raced through each other's minds just as clearly as they would had the words been spoken out loud. Eadbald and his son could both fall upon the field or along the way, and dread of this slowly seeped into the hearts of all present like an evil creeping murk. Yet though they were filled with doubt and trepidation, Eadbald and Atheltryth spoke not of the matter, lest the mere mentioning of such dire things would bring ill fortune.

After embracing and kissing his wife for long moments, Eadbald turned away from her, but her hand upon his shoulder stayed his feet. "Pray allow us to go with you and watch as the men ride away to answer the summons of the King," she entreated, looking upon him with pleading eyes.

"Aye, please take us with you!" cried Elfhild, hopping from one foot to the other in her excitement.

"We shall cheer as our two fine knights ride away." Elffled smiled one of the sweetest smiles she had ever smiled in her life, a smile calculated to melt her father's heart and thus allow her to get her way.

"Any boon would I grant such a wonderful wife and two blessed daughters! But the next thing I expect to hear is that you will also wish to ride with us into battle as well!" Eadbald laughed.

"You know if I could, I would follow you," Athelthryth's voice lowered and a look of stern determination came over her face.

"And we would too," Elfhild proclaimed, speaking for both herself and her sister.

"By Helm! A family of Shieldmaidens," Eadbald shook his head, chuckling, "and with tempers as fiery as a dragon's breath as well! The orcs would turn tail and run like the wretched curs they are back to the Deorcland if they were to face you three in a battle, thus robbing us men of sport and leaving us naught to fight!" The two sisters and their mother laughed heartily, their spirits glad for a change in the somber mood, though the mirthful diversion would only last but a little while.

When the laughter and jesting had stilled, Eadbald turned to his wife. "My beloved," he brushed away a stray lock of light straw-colored hair which had escaped her kerchief, "be not afraid, for we shall return to you and the twins."

"I shall watch for your return every day, and look to the East with more than just the hope of the coming of dawn." Tears glistening in her eyes, Athelthryth leaned her face against the touch of his hand. Her world was crumbling apart, and she was helpless to do anything about it.

"And you shall see us coming from the distance, lest the sun fail to shine and Middengeard be plunged into darkness," Eadbald murmured, pulling his wife into a tight embrace and kissing her almost desperately. A timorous smile flickered across her face and her cheeks glittered with light reflected off newly shed tears. Eadbald smiled back at her, kissing her brow and squeezing her hands, then turned to leave. His son was soon at his side and the two went to saddle up the old farm horse and gather what weapons they had.

Soon Athelthryth stood alone upon the lane with only her two daughters by either side. They drew close to their mother and their hands slipped around hers as they looked to her face with worry and concern. She could only embrace them tightly and whisper the same empty words of promises that their father had done, but naught could assuage the fears that consumed the hearts of all three like the black blight of some evil plague that leaches health and hope away and replaces them with emptiness and despair.

* * *

Though this is an alternative universe story, this chapter would fit in with the Canon. On March 4, 3019, "The King then chose men that were unhurt and had swift horses and he sent them forth with tidings of the victory into every vale of the Mark: and they bore his summons also bidding all men, young and old, to come in haste to Edoras." -The Muster of Rohan, The Two Towers, p.149-150. Since it would take a while to get the word out to every village and Eadbald's family lives close to Gondor, I allowed two days for the spread of information to get around to them.

Everholt - The Firien Wood.  
Grenefeld - A fictional village in the Eastfold. (grene = green; feld = field in Old English.)  
Isensmith - "Iron smith" in Old English; a blacksmith.  
Brúwann - Meaning "brown" in Old English.  
Middengeard - Middle-earth (or this world in which we live) in Old English.  
Deorcland - "Dark Land" in Old English.  
Thunorlic - Adjective meaning "of thunder" in Old English.

NAMES  
Elfhild - A variation of the Old English name Ælfhild. It means "elf battle." Théoden's wife was also named this name.  
Elffled - A variation of the Old English name Ælffled. It means "elf beauty."  
Eadbald - An Old English name that means happy and bold.  
Eadfrid - An Old English name. The first part means "happy" but "frid" is unknown. One source says it might be related to the Old English word "frith" which means "peace."  
Athelthryth - A variation of the Old English name Æthelthryth. It means "noble strength," and is probably pronounced "Athelthruth," since "y" sounds like "u" (ie. "Stybba" the stubby pony), though no one today knows the exact pronunciation of Old English.  
Osric - An Old English name that means "godly ruler."  
It should be noted that Old English names with the runic symbols of "thorn" or "eth" have been converted to "th," just as Tolkien did with names like Théoden.


	2. The Muster of Rohan

Chapter Written by Elfhild

All around the thegn's hall a great number of men and horses were gathered; tall, sturdy men with grim, solemn faces and varying shades of yellow hair, and horses with coats, tails and manes of many different hues of brown, gray and white. A few Riders, men of greater wealth than most, wore bright shirts of mail and possessed fine swords of cunning workmanship which hung from their belts. There were shields of bold colors and bows and arrows, many carrying instruments that they had used to hunt game for dinner. Other men wielded axes used for hewing timber and knives for every day use, and all, whether poor or wealthy, could afford spears cut from ash, the ends of some carved into wicked points and others topped with a bright head of steel or iron.

Many of the men whose wives and daughters owned horses or who lived within walking distance of the hall brought their families with them, and there were quite a few women, maidens and children who milled about the grounds, talking to their menfolk or to friends and relatives. It had been a while since many of the people had seen their friends and kinsman who lived far away, for seldom did they leave their farms. Though many matters of both small and grave import were discussed, always did the talk of the people return to the King's assembly and the threat of war and battle in both far distant lands and in their own.

The very air that spring morning seemed charged with excitement, as though a storm were brewing over the fair fields of the Mark. And indeed a storm was brewing, for the black clouds of war had gathered, driven by a baleful wind from the East; showers of arrows and fire would fall from the heavens, and blood would splash upon the ground like rain. As men talked of dire matters grave and deep, many a furtive glance from darkened eyes would be cast towards the East.

Anórien lay that way, but beyond it lay the Nameless Land; the first strike would fall against Gondor, many deemed, for that realm was so close to the Mountains of Shadow. The Riders would probably come to the aid of the Gondorians as they always had done, and many thought that that after the assembly in Edoras that was where the Riders would be going. But if Gondor fell, then Rohan would be next to be overrun by the endless hordes of the Dark Land. Did the clawed hand of the Enemy now stretch out to wrest the land of the Rohirrim away from them in one fell and bloody stroke?

The people of all free lands feared the Foe of the East, and many were loath to say the Enemy's name or the name of His land, especially in the darkness of the black and lonely night, as though the words would invoke a mighty spell of evil that would be the undoing of all. Orcs were ever encroaching upon the eastern borders of Rohan, assailing the wandering herdsmen, slaughtering the men and taking women and children captive. Above all the horses that they stole, they found the black ones most desirable, and many were the rumors spoken in hushed whispers of what horrors befell these beloved animals when they were taken to the Dark Land.

No one wanted to wage war against the Enemy of the East, but all feared that war was coming, and the choice was either to fight or be slaughtered. The Dark Lord would smite them as one crushes a vexing and troublesome insect under foot, thus quenching freedom forever and bringing all under the yoke of slavery. This knowledge weighed heavily upon the minds of the Riders, filling some with the cold peace that comes when one resigns one's self to dreadful doom, while others were stern and determined, vowing to be courageous and valiant at all times. Some men were frightened and dreaded the worst, and though they tried to hide it and appear brave, their dismay was evident in their fearful eyes and worried glances.

Eadbald led his wife and daughters to the shade beneath a stately old oak and bid them wait for him while he and Eadfrid went to report to their captain and see about obtaining a horse for Eadfrid so he could ride with his father to the assembly. After Eadbald embraced his wife and daughters and Eadfrid embraced his mother and sisters, they took their leave from them. The twins and their mother were once again left alone, though again for only a short while. The last and perhaps final parting was coming soon they knew, and they held back the tears which longed to stream down their cheeks in great rivulets.

To distract their dismal thoughts, Elfhild and Elffled gazed upon all of the men and horses assembling upon the grounds, for never had they seen this many Riders before. Pride and awe filled their hearts and they talked softly amongst themselves about how fine and grand the gallant knights looked upon their magnificent chargers. But these were not the Riders of the King's household; these were men and boys just from their part of the Eastfold, which made them seem all that much more dashing.

Leofgifu, the wife of Athelthryth's brother, approached them, followed by her young daughter, Athelwyn, a lass of around seven. Soon, the two women were deep in conversation with one another about their families, and what all had transpired since last they had spoken. Elfhild joined the conversation, laughing and smiling, with Elffled making an occasional comment but mostly talking with her little cousin. The rich voices of the women were filled with the excitement of seeing one another again, and they clucked and cackled like happy hens scratching in newly tilled earth. Then their thoughts became troubled and they walked around to the other side of the tree and then a ways, and talking in low voices lest their daughters hear and become alarmed, they spoke to one another about the news the heralds had brought to their husbands that morning.

As the two women talked, Elfhild and Elffled were left alone for a time and turned their attentions completely to their cousin, sometimes trying to divine the meaning of what the child was attempting to say, for her tongue did not yet have complete mastery of words. Though she had been named Athelwyn, she was often called Hunig, for her hair was the color of honey, and she was a sweet little maid. Soon, however, Athelthryth and Leofgifu returned, and after wishing her husband's kin good day, Leofgifu and her daughter vanished across the grass in search of their own kin. Elfhild and Elffled watched them as their forms became smaller and the two maidens wondered if they would see their uncles before the men rode away.

It was as the three sat on the grass beneath the oak that Swithwyn, the daughter of the miller, hailed Elfhild and Elffled from afar, and they rose to greet her. Soon Swithwyn and a small band of other girls, some of them cousins of the twins, stood beneath the tree; a few of the maidens were the same age as the sisters, but most were a few years older. Laughing and smiling, the little group of friends shared tidings of each other's families, and in more hushed tones, Swithwyn and her friends would tell Elfhild and Elffled all the latest gossip. Then the conversation took on a gloomy note and they asked each other if they thought there would definitely be war with the East, and how would fare the Riders. With heavy sighs, they all shook their heads sadly, for none knew the answer. Yet they dared to hope for the best and put away fears of the worst, for they could not bear the thoughts of their fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, friends and swains never returning to them.

Although Elfhild and Elffled were glad to see their friends, they inwardly fretted about their father and brother. Elfhild's hands nervously fumbled with her skirts and she constantly watched for their return. Then when she espied them from afar, leading both Thunorlic and another horse, her face lit up with joy. Delighted, she bragged about Father and Eadfrid to her friends, and Elffled eagerly joined her in exclamations of praise, their eyes shining brightly as they spoke.

Swithwyn and the other maids greeted Eadbald and Eadfrid, and a few of them smiled shyly at Eadfrid, then quickly averted their eyes and stared at the ground. After a few moments, the girls excused themselves and said their farewells, wishing Elfhild and Elffled's father and brother the best of fortunes. Then they meandered back towards the way they had come, seeking their own families.

Eadbald sighed heavily, looking upon each member of his family with sorrow - his beloved wife; his sweet daughters Elfhild and Elffled; and Eadfrid, who fancied he had the makings of a great warrior. It was with great hesitation that he spoke, but speak he must, for ever does time pass, though the heart would wish it stand still. "The men will be riding away soon, going off to Edoras," he began, swallowing hard to force the lump in his throat to leave. "We... we came to say farewell." Eadfrid looked to his mother and sisters and nodded gravely.

"Oh, Eadbald and Eadfrid...!" Athelthryth half-gasped, half-moaned as she clasped her hand to her heart. Her face fell and her brow furrowed in worry; tears shimmered against the lightness of her eyes. There had been so little time for them to be together, and now it was time for her husband and son to leave. She felt like her heart were being torn to pieces.

Eadbald extended his hand and scooped his wife's hand into his, squeezing it gently. He struggled for words - something, anything to say that would comfort his family - but words failed him. "A bitter cup we have been handed, but alas! we must drink of it," he said with a heavy sigh. "These are dark times, but I dare to hope, if such a thing yet exists. It brings me comfort to know that Leofgifu and my brother's family live so close; they shall help you, should you need it." Eadbald looked into his wife's eyes and squeezed her hand tighter. How horrible he felt, leaving his wife and daughters behind! "And there are your kin who live in the mountains to the south of here... They would succor you, should war break out and things become perilous here so close to the open plains."

"Hush, do not think of such things!" Athelthryth brought his hands to her lips and kissed them softly. "For if Gondor falls and the Mark is invaded, then all is lost. Please do not talk in such a fashion, lest what you say comes to pass!"

"No," Eadbald abruptly cleared his throat, "we should not dwell overlong on the possibility of defeat. It would give the Enemy much delight to see us lose hope and despair."

"Aye, and we do not willingly grant Him boons!" exclaimed Eadfrid, attempting to look steadfast and brave, The twins smiled, though there were tears in their eyes. How they admired their elder brother in this moment! How courageous he was, how noble!

Eadbald cast a glance at the men and horses assembled upon the grounds. "We must go," he said sadly as he turned back to his family. Impulsively, Athelthryth threw her arms around her husband, and they embraced each other tightly, whispering their love and affection for one another in desperate tones wracked with anguish. "Farewell, my beloved," she choked out. "May good fortune be with you in all your ways as will be my love."

"Oh Father...! Eadfrid!" Elfhild and Elffled embraced both their father and brother and kissed them upon their cheeks and foreheads. "We love you so much!" Elfhild exclaimed. "I pray all your journeys be safe and you have victory always in battle, should there be war!"

Elffled brushed away her tears with her fingers. "Farewell and come back to us quickly!" she sniffed.

The three women then gave their menfolk their handkerchiefs so when the longing of home filled their hearts, they would have a familiar keepsake to which to clutch in trembling hand and thus gain comfort in the dark days they all feared would surely come. Then after many embraces and tear-filled goodbyes, Eadbald and Eadfrid led their horses across the ground and fell in with the rest of the men.

Athelthryth and her two daughters left the shade beneath the tree and headed towards the crowd of women who had gathered to see the Riders off. As they walked over the grass, a tall Rider mounted upon a great gray horse hailed them as he drew nigh. He was a young man, a few years older than the twins. The sun glinted off hair the color of burnished gold and his mail shirt shone bright silver in the brilliant light. Elfhild's heart skipped a beat, and when it steadied itself, it was beating much faster than it had before. "Osric the Isensmith's son," she thought to herself with a sigh, and the smile upon her face was wide.

The young man alighted from his horse and bowed low to all three but to Elfhild in especial, and her heart pounded in her chest like a drummer beating wildly. "Sweet maiden of Grenefeld, would you so kindly bestow upon me, Osric the humble son of Oswald the Isensmith, a favor by which I could remember you by and I could take with me into battle?"

Elfhild's heart beat so fast she feared it would explode, her legs quivered like a newborn colt's and she felt that she would fall into a swoon right there. Dimly she was aware of sister's crushing grip upon her hand as she whispered excitedly in her ear, and the smiling form of her mother beside her tapping her on the arm and urging her to do something other than stand there and gape stupidly at the young man before her.

"I... I... I would be glad," she choked out at last, her voice hoarse as she forced herself to speak. Osric smiled at her, and his smile was warm and friendly, and though it was mid-day, Elfhild saw stars shimmering around the form of the Rider. "Osric the Isensmith's son," she thought to herself with a sigh. "Perhaps this shall be the last time I shall ever lay eyes upon thee again, though that thought sears my heart with pain and sorrow. But what favor do I have to give, for I gave my handkerchief to my father?" Then she remembered the woven ribbon that tied off the end of her braid, and she found suddenly that she was trembling. Then swallowing hard and gathering up all of her faltering courage to herself, she pulled her braid over her shoulder and struggled blindly to untie the knot which secured the ribbon around the tail of the plait.

"Here," she said, her cheeks a rosy shade of pink, "take this meager trinket into battle with you and may it bring you good fortune. No niggard am I, but I have naught else to give." She could not control the trembling of her hand as she extended the ribbon to Osric.

"Ah!" he laughed. "Not so, Lady Elfhild - the smallest gift from you would bring the greatest happiness to my heart. Thank you most kindly, my good lady," he said as he took the ribbon from her hand. Slender fingers involuntarily curled over the sides of his, and he clasped them gently with his thumb and bending downwards, brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "And now I must be off. A good day to you and your wonderful family!"

Elfhild floated in a world filled with stars that sparkled in the light of day and spun around her at a dizzying pace. She thought she heard the chuckling voices of her mother and sister say farewell to Osric, and she thought she remembered saying a word of farewell too, but she barely comprehended all that transpired after the kiss. Her hand still tingled from the touch of his lips, and she watched with glazed eyes as he mounted his horse and joined the rest of the Riders. Then she burst out into a fit of giggles and grasping her sister by the shoulders, danced with her upon the soft grass.

Soon an orderly column of mounted men stood upon the grounds. Captains gave speeches, and the voices of the men rose up into the heavens as they cheered and yelled, shaking their spears in the air. Then a horn was blown and a great cry to go forward was uttered. The hearts of the old men, women, maidens and young children swelled with pride as they saw their beloved Riders depart with stern faces and spears held high. Athelthryth and her two daughters waved to them as they went by, cheering for Eadbald and Eadfrid; her brother, Athelwine; Eadbald's brother, Egbert; Osric the Isensmith's son; and other close friends and family members.

There went the horse and the rider and the horn that blew, but as to whether there would yet be a harvest in the autumn no one yet knew. Tears filled the women's eyes and sorrow filled their hearts, for they feared that the sun would go down in the West forevermore and all would be covered with shadow and those who were born in freedom would die as thralls.

Elfhild's footsteps were slow and graceful as she walked with reverence up the well-worn path that led to the top of the hill behind the little thatch-roof hut. Though the beautiful spring landscape was filled with a sense of peace and tranquility, the pleasant surroundings felt hallowed and commanded a solemn respect. The hill was like Halfirien in the quiet forest of Everholt to the east, though within its green howe had never slept one so high as Elendil. Elfhild walked in silence in the darkening hours of early evening until at last the light of the setting sun caught upon the familiar sight of small rounded knolls covered with flowers, causing the white petals of their blossoms to be touched with bright copper. Lowering herself beside one of the mounds, she sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and her chin rested atop them.

"All of the men went off to the assembly in Edoras, Grandmother," she whispered at last, pulling her legs closer to herself. "Even Father and Eadfrid, Uncle Athelwine, and Uncle Egbert. I think there shall be war."

There was no reply, of course; Elfhild had gotten used to that long ago. Her grandmother had passed on when Elfhild was only ten, and she still missed her very much. Visiting her grandmother's grave brought her a strange sense of comfort and she came here many times when she was troubled. Sometimes she would even come here to tell her grandmother of a joyous occasion that had happened or was going to happen, or merely when she just wanted to be alone. Her hand gently stroked the cool, rough surface of the marking stone and she sighed deeply, a great sense of bittersweet melancholy filling her spirit.

"I... I... wonder what shall happen," she stammered, and struggled to say the words out loud. Then at last the tears that had leaked out of her eyes like a lazy spring shower all morning and afternoon rushed down her cheeks like water bursting forth from a break in a dam. Great wailing gasps tore themselves out of her throat and she flung herself upon the mound, the noise of her weeping muffled by the flowers of simbelmynë which surrounded her face. The fingers of one hand dug into the dirt and the other hand grasped the lichen-covered rock tightly, and her shoulders shook with the intensity of her sorrow.

Dimly she perceived two presences standing above her. How long they had been there, she did not know, for it seemed that she had spent an eternity weeping in the flowers. Slowly she pushed herself up and sat beside the barrow, looking up blearily at the figures of her mother and sister. Wiping her face with a dirty sleeve, she started to rise, but they shook their heads and sat down beside her, and Brúwann lay down at her side, resting his head on her leg as though to comfort her. The three remained there, sitting in silent contemplation, beside the snowy green mound until the sun sank behind the hills in the West and hazy blue twilight gently swept across the land.

On the evening of March 9th, the third day after the men had left, a great heaviness burdened Elfhild's heart and she desired to be alone. The three women were seated at the table and had just finished eating the evening meal when Elfhild excused herself, saying she was going outside to take some air. Soon she stood leaning against the side of the house and for long moments she looked west in the direction of Edoras where her beloved father, brother, uncles, dear Osric and all the other men and lads had gone. Then her gaze shifted and she looked east, the direction of Gondor and beyond it the abominable hells of the Dark Land. In her mind's eye, she saw the destruction of all that she held dear, and, trembling, her heart became sorely afraid.

It was at that moment that a shadow darkling reached its baleful fingers over the already dim fields of the Mark, slowly yet steadily unfolding as a shroud, sealing and entombing in darkness a world that yet lived. The few flickering stars of twilight above faded into nothingness beneath the ever-stretching hand, and soon a somber, heavy gloom hung above the land. Evil clouds borne out of the East filled the heavens, completely obscuring what little light remained of the day, and ever did they drift westward.

Elfhild screamed in horror. War there would be and war was coming; the Lord of the Nameless Land had declared it, and all would be lost.

* * *

Tolkien tells us of the military ordering of the Mark, but he does not give us insight on how individual villages were ordered. The northern peoples of Rohan were wandering herdsmen, so the elders of different clans would probably have the highest political/military rank. However, it seems that the people who lived closer to the mountains had structured villages. Since Tolkien was so vague, I borrowed from the Anglo-Saxons here. A thegn would live in a manor and have rule over the surrounding lands and in turn be answerable to another thegn above him, and all would be answerable to the king. Though the Rohirrim are a simple and primitive people, the villages in the south would probably have some form of social/military ordering, though probably far less structured than the Anglo-Saxons. I do not think that Tolkien would have taken too much offense to my artistic license.

Yes, Elfhild is witness to the volcanic cloud from Mt. Doom which went all the way from Mordor to Rohan, and the folk of Eastfold would have been the first to have seen it. "[The cloud] began last night at sunset. From the hills in the Eastfold of your realm I saw it rise and creep across the sky, and all night as I rode it came behind eating up the stars. Now the great cloud hangs over all the land between here and the Mountains of Shadow; and it is deepening. War has already begun." - The Muster of Rohan, Return of the King, p. 74

NAMES  
Leofgifu - A name in Old English meaning "dear gift."  
Athelwyn - A name in Old English meaning "noble joy."  
Hunig - "Honey" in Old English. When before or after an "i" or "e," "g" becomes soft and sounds like "y."  
Oswald - A name in Old English meaning "godly ruler."  
Swithwyn - A name in Old English meaning "strong joy." Not a historical name, but my own creation using the "rules" of Old English women's names


	3. Days With No Dawn

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The next morning came with no dawn and that dark day would later be known by all who hailed from Rohan and Gondor as the Dawnless Day, though there would be no dawn the next morning or the next morning after that. On the second day after the sun had failed to rise, a great sound of men and horses was heard by all the folk in the village late in the afternoon. The women ventured out of their homes where they had cringed fearfully for two gloomy days and a night, and behind them followed frightened children who clung to their skirts. The womenfolk stood beside the road and watched as the dim forms of many Riders swiftly passed by, gasping in awe when they beheld King Théoden and the knights of his house.

Pride flamed up in their hearts, for the riding of the Eorlingas was such a grand and glorious procession, and they had seen naught like it before. Their king was a very likeness of Béma, the god of horses and hunting, and his horse was almost as beautiful as the golden-hooved steed of that god of old. The fierce and fell warriors who followed him seemed like heroes of song and lay, riding upon mighty war chargers who were akin to the great horse-sires which came out of the West in the days of yore. Elfhild and Elffled knelt and bowed their heads as Théoden and his knights passed by, overwhelmed and humbled at the majestic sight of their ruler. Lowly peasants such as they seldom saw any nobility higher than thanes, and even then it was often only from afar. What an honor it was to be in the presence of the king... if only for a few short moments!

The Riders had great need of speed and so their passing was swift, but some of the men slowed a little though they were in haste and called to the women of Grenefeld, giving them tidings of the riding. Gondor had summoned the help of the Mark, for all that land was heavy with the rumor of war, and skirmishes were breaking out all along its borders. An errand rider, 'twas said, had been sent to speak to the king, and he presented him with the Red Arrow.

Their pride soon replaced by fear, the women watched with eyes filled with sorrow and despair as the Riders hastened by them, for they were certain that the men were riding to their doom and all was lost. None of the women, even the eldest, could recall when last Gondor had so desperately sought the aid of the Riddermark, and the fear they had felt since their men first left for Edoras increased tenfold, for if Gondor fell and could not hold back the armies of the Black Land, then the Mark would be the next to fall, and there would be no escape.

An ache deep and intense filled the hearts of Elfhild and Elffled, for they seldom had been sundered from their father and brother for long. Their distress had been great enough when they had gone to Edoras, and now the two men were going to fight in a land the maidens considered strange and alien, though its people were friends with theirs and its western border lay less than five miles away. Their hearts felt like vessels filled to the brink with sorrow, and their pain was so great the feeling was akin to great birds ripping at their chests, tearing out flesh with piercing talons. The two maidens clung to their mother and all three looked eastward with fearful glances whither their Riders had gone.

Every day after for the twins and their mother was spent in fear and dread, and they seldom strayed far from the house. Then came the morning of the fifth day after the sun had failed to rise, somber and gloomy and as dawnless as all the others before it. Elfhild leaned slightly forward, her hands resting upon the rough surface of the rock wall that surrounded the garth, as she gazed thoughtfully into the darkness. The hill behind the house stood out as a shape of deeper black in the dim light, and Elfhild could not see the path which led to the howes of her grandmother and other kinsmen.

"Hilde?" asked a soft voice and Elfhild turned around. Her sister was there. Somewhere in the gloom, a rooster flew to the top of the stone fence, flapped his wings and bellowed out a lusty crow. "Will you not come in and eat the morning meal?" Elffled implored.

"Very well. I was just struggling to see the sunrise in this accursed darkness," Elfhild sighed.

Elffled bit her bottom lip. She knew the dark murk that covered the skies preyed upon her sister's mind; it troubled all of them. They walked back towards their home. Soft golden light radiated out of the narrow windows of the house, and it was a comforting sight amid the chill gloom. Yet only small solace home and hearth brought, for inside was filled with a great aching emptiness, thick and heavy like the smoke from the brazier; a wistful feeling, as though friends or kinsmen who had sojourned there for a time had just departed for their own homes, or a loved one had recently died and went onto the Halls. They missed their father, brother and uncles terribly, but they did not wholly fall into despair, and the numbing grief was mixed with impatient anticipation, for they had hope that Eadbald and Eadfrid and their uncles yet lived and would come back alive.

As Elfhild reached the door to the house, a breeze began to pick up, gently lifting their hair and blowing it towards the east. The two sisters stood there a while, heedless of the meal which waited inside, for they perceived that some change was about to occur. The skies slowly began to lighten, for the western wind was rolling the clouds back, and shafts of sunlight burst forth from out of the darkness.

"The sun! The sun!" Elfhild gasped breathlessly. "She is shining again! O Mother!" she cried and ran through the door, her sister at her heels.

But yet their mother, overhearing Elfhild's cries, had hastened to the doorway, just in time to meet her two daughters as they rushed through. For the first time since Eadbald and Eadfrid had left, the fear and worry in her mother's eyes was lessened, and her features lit up in relief and happiness. "What joy is this...!" she remarked in wonder.

"The sun is coming back!" Elffled shouted.

Elfhild clasped her mother's arm and jumped up and down. "Something wonderful has happened! The evil clouds in the heavens are being driven away!"

"Then let us go outside and see this joyous thing!" A beaming smile adorned Athelthryth's face, and the three rushed out the door, almost stumbling over each other. Surely this was the miracle for which Athelthryth had been praying!

They stood looking up and saw the steady movement of the clouds being driven ever eastward. They were dark wisps now, like black spider webs, tattered and torn, clinging but having nothing to which to cling. Behind them was a pale blue sky, and it was like a new thing to the three. The breeze was pleasant and felt clean and new, a change from the stale air beneath the murk, and the land seemed to breathe a great sigh of relief. Now the sun shone clearly, free of the shroud which had been laid over the heavens, and once more her beams began to warm a land which had lain five days in darkness.

"Come," cried Elfhild, "let us dance!" She took her sister's hand in one of hers and her mother's hand in the other. Her mother and sister joined hands and they danced upon the garth, singing joyously at the return of the sun.

Somewhere, perhaps, battle waged on far distant fields before the dark gates of a White City, which Elfhild called Mundburg in her own tongue. But now all shadows had been chased away by the blessed light of the sun, and with the return of her light, Elfhild was certain that the tides had turned and mayhap the West could vanquish its fearsome foe at last. She thought it glorious, for battles to her were the exciting yet bittersweet adventures told about in songs and lays, for she was young and knew not the true sorrow and horror of war. She broke away from her sister and mother's grasp, spinning and twirling over the grass, until she became dizzy and stilled her steps, staggering and giggling.

"Elfhild!" Athelthryth laid a hand against the door frame for support. "Be careful, lest you fall!"

"I think-" Elfhild gasped for breath, "I think something wonderful has happened. This must be a sign, an omen of it. Perhaps the Riders have been victorious!" She looked at her mother and sister, her eyes shining and slightly crossed as she tried to focus on their spinning forms.

"I believe they have been, Hild," Athelthryth smiled, "or at least I hope so. I, too, shall take this sunlight as a sign that all is not lost as we had feared. See?" She pointed up at the sky. "The west wind strives with the east wind, and the west has won the battle."

"Aye," Elfhild exclaimed, "and the battle which the Eorlingas fought in the Stoneland will be remembered for many years to come in song and legend. There will be tale after tale of brave deed upon the field of battle-"

"And, oh," Elffled blurted out, interrupting her sister, "we shall all sit around the brazier and Father and Eadfrid will tell them to us when they return!"

"Aye!" exclaimed Elfhild. "The Riders will return, victorious and triumphant, and the sounds of the heralds blowing their horns and shouting the tidings of the victory shall be heard from afar. The banners shall be lifted high and proudly, and the white horse shall flap and flutter in the wind like a bird on a sky of green, and around the necks of the Riders and the saddles of their horses shall be garlands of flowers, thrown there by the grateful folk of the Stoneland!"

"Oh, how glorious it sounds!" cried Elffled.

Her mother clapped her hands in joy and leaned up against the side of the house. "Hear, hear! May what you say indeed come true, Elfhild!"

"Father and Eadfrid shall return as heroes and warriors, and with them shall be all the men and lads in the village; Osric and his brother Oslaf and their father Oswald, Old Man Fastred and his old gray horse, Swithulf the Miller's son, Cuthwine the Dark-Haired, Herebold and his father and all the other fellows and their kin, and even poor old Wini the Simple shall be accounted among the brave. Oh, I know this will be true! I just know it!" With that, Elfhild burst into tears and sat down heavily upon the ground, holding her head in her hands and weeping both from joy and sorrow.

A smile spread across Elffled's face at her sister's words, and soon she and her mother were sitting on the grass beside Elfhild. Wini was one of the sons of a neighboring farmer, and the lad had always been fond of Elffled, though he was dreadfully bashful and prone to stuttering. He was not a bright fellow; dull-witted in fact, for when he was a small lad he had been kicked in the head by a horse, and he had not been right ever since. Though he was a hard worker, he was always slow and clumsy. Ánfald he was called, that is "simple"; and other names as well, some far less kind. Elffled liked Wini and felt pity for him, but she loved him only as a friend, though she suspected he held a deeper affection for her.

Elffled had never felt strongly for any young man in Grenefeld, for she felt that they were all rather dull. Sure, many a youth had told her that she was pretty and gave her rakish winks, but she had never felt the stirrings of love in her heart for any of them. Many would make good husbands and fathers, but they simply did not interest her. They were like comfortable old shoes, not like the fascinating lovers whom she conjured up in her daydreams. Then, too, none of them were as handsome or strong as Osric, but Elfhild had her heart set on marrying him. Sometimes Elffled was jealous of her sister's happiness, but she tried not to think that way.

She often fantasized about marrying a man from a far village, or better still, one from a great city like Edoras or Aldburg. Doubtless such a man would be absolutely fascinating, and he could tell her of things which lay far beyond the little village of Grenefeld. The fellow would be even more appealing if he were rich, too, but a poor girl such as she was had little chance of having a wealthy husband. She would probably marry whomever her parents suggested, and settle down to a placid, boring life as a farmer's wife. Of course, who knew what the future held? When the men returned victorious, maybe she would find herself completely infatuated with one of the handsome young fellows. A somewhat flighty girl, she had a tendency to be indecisive and changed her mind frequently.

Elfhild's thoughts were far different from those of her sister and she daydreamed of when Osric would come back to the village, the victorious warrior returning from the field. Oh, how she prayed for Osric's safety! She longed to see him again, to hear his pleasant voice tell her tales of the battle, to see his ruddy face light up with laughter. Maybe her father would allow them to wed when he came back.

A marriage between the two would be beneficial for everyone, for Osric's family was much wealthier, and the union would form an alliance between the two families. She did not think that the brideprice would be too expensive, for her family was fond of the Oswaldings, and she doubted her father would have any objections to such a proposal. In her mind, she had already set a date for the marriage - Midsummer Day, just after her birthday.

But Osric had not yet returned, and Elfhild dared not consider the possibility that he might not, for she felt such dire thoughts would bring him ill fortune. He would return to his village and so would her father and brother, or so she had convinced herself. Elfhild's heart swelled and she sighed deeply as she sat with her chin in her hands, her eyes glistening.

The three sat upon the grass in silence, each thinking her own thoughts, whether they were pleasant daydreams or filled with fear and sadness. Perhaps their happiness was in vain, but they had to do something to keep from falling into despair, and so they dared to harbor precarious hopes, whether they were true or false.

At last Athelthryth broke the silence. "This sunlight is indeed a blessing; one most oft overlooked in times of peace," she commented, a wry smile upon her face. "Our hearts have been lightened, but now the time of celebrating draws to its close, for we must tend to the animals and the garden."

The three rose to their feet, and it felt as though a great burden was lifted from their hearts. But suddenly doubt fell over Elffled and a wave of vague and unknown dread passed over her. Yet the sun still shown and it seemed that hope was kindled once again. She smiled and followed her mother even though her heart was still ill at ease.

The day passed in a golden haze of heady bliss. The chickens were lively again, shaking off the lazy sluggishness that had set in due to lack of light. Elffled enjoyed watching them, for while maids like Swithwyn delighted in the gossip of the village, one could learn the same sort of thing by observing fowl. A young black and red cock and an old and short rooster of black and white feathers both desired the same hen, a slender gray bird with a buff breast. She was more like a rooster, for her comb was tall and her wattles long and sharp spurs she had grown upon her bluish gray ankles. When angered at another hen whom she thought was lesser, her hackle feathers would rise and she would fight like a cock.

The two roosters were sparring now, locked in conflict, but the black and white one was a gentle bird whereas the other was fierce, and so the big rooster soon took flight on his short little legs. The sleek red and black cock pursued him for a short distance, then crowed triumphantly and returned to claim his prize for winning the fight. Elffled's father was proud of this rooster, and had thought about fighting him, but he was young and small, and his strength would be the lesser should any man possess one of the fierce fighting cocks which had to be staked out by tethers on their ankles lest they slay all other roosters whom they perceived as threats.

Elffled sighed as she thought of her father, and looked towards where he had planned to dig their new well. Feeling the pangs of tears in her eyes, she quickly rose from her seat upon one of the logs in the woodpile. Briskly she moved to where the hen had her nest between the logs and a scraggly bush. Her hand shot out like a striking snake and quickly grasped the feathers on the back of the chicken's neck, so the bird would not peck her while she fetched the egg beneath her warm body. After she released the hen, the chicken clucked angrily and her yellow-red eyes seemed to glare as she readjusted her position upon her nest. Elffled began to walk back to the house, but she paused in her journey. Her gaze was drawn eastward, and she squinted with her blue eyes, straining to breach the many leagues to where 'twas said stood a sparkling White City. But she could not see that far, and only saw rolling hills and endless fields broken by rows of trees.

The next morning, she had awakened before dawn, her sleep troubled by dreams of a dreadful storm. Through eyes still bleary with weariness, Elffled turned and saw that her mother and sister had already risen. Yet no light trickled in through the windows, and all was dark in the house, save for the soft glow of the brazier. "What is wrong?" she mumbled, rubbing the sand from her eyes.

"The darkness has returned, Elffled," her mother replied quietly, her voice grave.

"What?" Suddenly Elffled was wide awake.

Athelthryth stood before the window, her arms across her chest. "Your ears do not deceive you. Come, and see for yourself!"

Elffled rose and walked over to the window. Her mother moved aside so she could see. All was dark and though it was morning, once again the lands lay under murky twilight. She remembered the feeling of unease she had the day before, and knew that some great evil had come to pass.

"What do you think has happened, Mother?" she asked fearfully, looking to her. "Should we flee to the mountains?"

"I do not know." Athelthryth's voice wavered when she spoke.

"Perhaps the clouds will go away again, as they did yestermorn," suggested Elfhild, the perpetual optimist.

"Perhaps not." Athelthryth shook her head. "I fear something horrible has befallen, some great doom. The clouds are gathering. The storm will soon follow." Her voice broke and her tone sounded hoarse. "The hope of yesterday was false and we have been betrayed."

A shiver ran down Elfhild's spine and Elffled shuddered, remembering the fell storm in her dream; the winds howled balefully as blinding walls of rain fell and drenched the earth, and the crack of thunder had been like mighty drums of war, the lightning like explosions of white fire.

"Do you think Father and Eadfrid are safe?" Elfhild asked, her voice soft and filled with worry.

Athelthryth bit her lower lip and put a shaky hand to her forehead "I pray that they are," she sighed. But hope seemed an impossible thing in the darkness which crept over both heaven and heart, and despair clung to the spirit like inky drops of oil.

* * *

This chapter, just like the two before it, is deeply rooted in canon. After the Dawnless Day (March 10), all the land from Mordor to Rohan lay under a black cloud from the East until the morning of March 15, the day of the Battle of Pelennor Fields. However, in this alternative universe, even though the western wind blows away the clouds which obscure the sun, Pelennor is still won by Mordor, for Éowyn and Merry fail to kill the Witch-King of Angmar. From this chapter onward, the story becomes complete alternative universe.

NAMES  
Oslaf - An Old English name meaning "godly/divine" and "survivor/legacy/sword" (the meaning of láf is uncertain).  
Fastred - One of Tolkien's names meaning "firm/steadfast" and "counsel/wisdom."  
Swithulf - An Old English name meaning "strong wolf."  
Cuthwine - An Old English name meaning "known friend."  
Herebold - An Old English name meaning "army bold."  
Wini - An Old English name meaning "friend."  
Ánfald - "Simple" in Old English.


	4. The Clouds of War

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Unbeknownst to Athelthryth and her two daughters, war waged in the land of Gondor and armies still clashed against each other, though the gates of the Mundburg had been split asunder by battering ram and blasting spell the day before. The Eorlingas came to the aid of Gondor as the sun shone that day, the 15th day of March, and the hooves of their horses thundered over the land beneath the newfound beams of light as the clouds rolled back. Then the Dark King descended from the heavens and Théoden King was slain, crushed beneath his great white horse, and both king and steed lay beneath the one who felled them. The Lord of Death, though, almost met his own death on the battlefield, but Fate, strange and unknowable, took a different course, and thus his life was spared. The fields of Pelennor were strewn with bodies; fair man and horse and foul creature of the Dark Land all lay together in the bloody, trampled grass.

The dark and evil murk from the East came back late that night whilst all were sleeping, but now it once again obscured the light of the sun and taunted all below with baleful foreboding and despair. The morning of the 16th, Elfhild and Elffled had watched the darkened sky in growing fear and their trembling forms drew nigh unto their mother, and they had clung to her like young children seeking comfort. But there was little solace to be found, for they lived in an evil time, and the days would become yet grimmer still.

A little past the middle of that dark month of March two small figures - Holbytlan, the little folk spoken of in the legends of the Eorlingas - labored across a rocky plain beneath a smoke-filled sky, clad in the mail of orcs. They were on an errand to seek a fiery Mountain in the midst of a land of ash and shadows, but they never arrived at their destination. They were discovered along the way and were thus captured and taken to the Dark Tower, and so in the end their quest had been in vain. However, this tale is mainly concerned with the twin daughters of Eadbald and those with whom they were acquainted, and so little is told of what dooms befell the Holbytlan in the Great Tower of the East.

The rest of March passed by in a dreary haze and soon came the month of April. Little rain had fallen since the fifteenth of March and the land suffered from drought and lack of light. The ground was cracked like a piece of pottery from want of water, and the plants in fields and gardens took on a sickly, yellow hew, their leaves growing long and spindly, desperately seeking what little light there was to be found. In Gondor, the folk forsook their farms and gardens and fled from the armies of the Dark Land, but in Rohan which had not yet been assailed, the people toiled in their dying gardens beneath even skies at noon-day.

Times were dire and a dearth was upon that land. Gone were the fresh spring breezes filled with the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of apple and plum blossoms and the scents of other growing things, for the air was as still and stale as the air in a sealed tomb of stone. It was unseasonably chilly for the sun was denied from the land, and in the nights the people would huddle around their braziers as though it were mid-fall instead of spring. A little rain fell in that month and the people rejoiced greatly, running out of their huts and dancing with abandon as blinding sheets of water pelted their bodies, but just as soon as the rains departed, the clouds from the East returned.

No one knew how long the darkness would beleaguer the land and fear grew by the day. The folk of the Mark lived in uncertainty and the women gathered their knives, daggers, and what other weapons they could find. Mothers forbade their children from leaving the garth and when evening fell, only the simplest fool would dare go outside, and everyone kept their doors locked and barred. Even in the dim light of day, traveling across a wide stretch of field to a neighbor's house seemed like a quest into peril and death. Whenever the women were forced to leave their huts, a dagger or a sax - a long farm knife - was always by their side.

Elfhild now only tread the winding path to her grandmother's mound if her mother and sister would go with her, for though the hill of the barrows still felt hallowed though murky mists covered the land, Elfhild was frightened to walk such a distance alone. The most terrifying of all the tales that her family loved to tell around the brazier came back to haunt her mind, and she would cast fearful glances into the trees, imagining that she saw their leaves move though no breeze was blowing and caught a glimpse of ghostly shapes flitting about beneath the shadowy limbs. Then she would move closer to her mother and sister and nigh to her grandmother's grave, for it brought her comfort. She knew in her heart that should any phantom of the nightshade dare harm them in this holy place, a dreadful cry would issue from out of the barrow and her grandmother's spectral form would emerge from the symblemynë-covered earth and drive their enemies away.

But in their hut far from the hill, Elfhild could not draw upon the comforting thoughts of her grandmother's wraith, and morbid fantasies preyed upon her mind. Lurking within the darkness of the night she fancied there were fell creatures who circled about the little thatched-roof house, encroaching ever closer, waiting for the right moment in which they would spring and devour their prey. Sometimes, too, she was convinced that she could sense hostile presences which flitted through the shadowy recesses of their hut, passing through on their way to keep a tryst of great evil, but perhaps it was just the fancies of her imagination. Sleep was hard to find those cold spring nights, and when the two maidens and their mother found it, it was often troubled and filled with nightmares.

The days crept by. No word had been heard from the South and none knew what had befallen the Riders. Four thousand men had been left to guard the strongholds of the Mark, but four thousand was nothing compared to the tens of thousands of the Dark Land. If the Enemy did not utterly destroy Rohan by summer, the people feared famine and drought would slay them first. Gardens withered and died from lack of water and sunlight, root crops were small and stunted and fresh greens tasted foul. There were still dried foods and grains, though, and in greater supply than was usual for that time of year for the men and boys were not there to eat them. Families rationed their supplies and helped out those in need, but seldom were bellies filled to anyone's liking.

Many of the people of Anórien had fled into the mountains, but a few traveled the Great West Road, seeking sanctuary in Rohan. The press of the newcomers taxed the food supplies, for the Rohirrim had enough trouble feeding their own people, much less Gondorian refugees. Whole villages in the Eastfold were abandoned when their people became too frightened to live so close to the East anymore. They joined the Anórian exiles and made their way west, seeking food and shelter. Others spent the long, slow, miserable days waiting for death, for they feared that the end of the world was upon them.

Why did Athelthryth stay? Even she wondered. Perhaps it was because the thought of traveling through the gloom was so imposing. Though she had kin in the mountains, they were distant relatives and she had never met any of them. For that matter, she had never been more than a few miles away from the village in her whole lifetime. It was terrifying even to consider embarking upon a journey without even knowing where she was going! Robbers could be lurking about, taking advantage of the blackened skies to rob frightened travelers.

Then, too, she still held hope that the men would come back and the darkness would pass. If she fled, Eadbald might never be able to find her again. How horrible that would be! No, she would stay, at least until their food supply ran precariously low. She and her daughters were in no imminent danger now, however, and she would not plunge them all into peril by fleeing in senseless panic. Even if the enemy did manage to make encroachments into Rohan, the home guard would protect the village and warn the people if there was an attack. Then and only then would she abandon her home - under the protection of strong warriors.

But there was no sense in bringing misfortune upon her family herself by thinking gloomy thoughts. Rohan and Gondor would be victorious, and the sun would shine once again. All she had to do was wait for King Théoden and the Riders of Rohan to return victorious.

She kept waiting.

Nine Riders mounted upon carrion-birds flew in the skies over Gondor that dismal spring and the hearts of men quailed and minds darkened with terror whenever the shadows of the great shapes passed over them. The Eorlingas had not been utterly defeated, though, as many of the folk back at home had feared. 'Twas true the Rohirrim forsook the defense of their own land for a time and aided the Gondorians, but even if they wished to break the Oath of Eorl and return to the green plains of the Mark, they could not. There was no way back to that land unless it was by passes over the White Mountains, for Minas Tirith was held by the Enemy and new forces from the Dark Land arrived almost every day.

Many were the losses of all armies in those early days of the war, and many a doughty man and brave lad would never return to the fair fields and hills of the Eastfold. Wini Ánfald fell upon the fields of Pelennor, impaled by a pike as he valiantly charged into a ring of orcs who had surrounded his unhorsed captain, and never would he return to the land of his birth or to the maiden whom he shyly loved. Herebold and his brother both were pulled off their horses, their bodies hewn by the axes of the orcs, and their father died a few weeks later when an arrow pierced his throat. In the years to come, the songs sung by the folk of that part of the Eastfold were filled with names and deeds, and the fallen were immortalized forever by the rich, sorrowful voices of the Mark.

Throughout the months of March and April, battle waged beneath dreary skies, and the fighting was intense as the war traveled southward through Lossarnach and over the fords of Erui, and across the Sirith into Lebennin. Villages were burnt and cities besieged, and swords clashed from the eaves of the White Mountains to the Anduin and the sea. There was fierce fighting at the Ford of Ethring over the River Ringló, and many were slain in this struggle. Cuthwine the Dark-Haired was unhorsed when his steed tumbled in a fall and the Rider fell to the ground rolling. Springing to his feet, he drew his sword as the orcs came at him, snarling and baring their fangs. He stood there, his legs braced wide apart, and dared them to come closer, and indeed they did, growling in their anger at the challenge. He slew at least five of them before they at last dragged him beneath their swarm, and so fell Cuthwine of the Dark-Haired.

After that bloody battle at the Fords of Ethring, the tides began to turn in favor for the West, for the valor of the Gondorians and Riders of Rohan had won the battle and saved the day. For a time, the forces of the Enemy were loath to continue fighting, for the Gondorians proved to be dour-handed warriors who would not willingly surrender the lands that were dear to them and the Rohirrim were no less valiant a foe. But yet the Mind of the Dark Lord was set upon conquering, and so His armies were driven ever onward both by His will and the lash of the whip. Just as the Gondorians were determined to defend their land, He was determined to take it.

Lorien had been taken and Dale had been destroyed. There was still strife in Mirkwood and about the Lonely Mountain just as there was in Gondor, but it mattered little, for all lands would eventually be His. He always enjoyed a challenge, whether in conquering by force or by seduction. Stroking the Great Ring, He smiled to Himself and then cast a glance down to the small prisoner who was chained to the leg of His great throne. His smile became even wider and He began to chuckle softly to himself. Then His laughter began to grow, becoming ever louder until it echoed like thunder against the walls of the tower, shaking the stone and filling all with fear.

Then came the month of May. The city of Tarnost in the northern eaves of the Hills of Tarnost was captured after much struggle, and then the war turned west towards Edhellond and then to Dol Amroth. The fighting was fierce before that grand city by the sea and the blood shed by both sides ran deep like the waters of Cabas Haven below the hill upon which Dol Amroth stood. Yet though they struggled and strove with all their might, the forces of the West were overwhelmed and were forced to retreat into the safety behind the stone walls of the city.

Then they were trapped, besieged by their enemies, and their plight was indeed dire, though their colorful flags were raised proudly in defiance. Some then lost hope and fell into utter despair in that dark hour, for great were the black hordes that swarmed around the white gates. One mother turned to the ways of the heathen kings of old, but instead of burning herself and her children upon pyres, she gave them poisoned draughts and then drank deeply of the bitter cup herself. A few men willingly put themselves in the way of the arrows of the attackers, preferring to die rather than be captured, and some even threw themselves from the seaward wall and their bodies were dashed upon the rocks below.

However, most of the folk mustered their courage and remained brave, keeping their vows to fight to the bitter end, even when all seemed lost. Not willingly would they surrender the chief city and port of Belfallas, or let the tower of Tirith Aear fall to the enemy! Proudly would the blue flag with its swan ship of silver fly, until it was crushed under the iron boots of the foe. Many were the feats of bravery in those days, and the tales tell of one fey Gondorian who killed sixty orcs as he stood back to back with his comrade at the siege, the bodies of their enemies heaped about them in a ring. Many of the women and children even took up kitchen utensils and whatever else they could use as weapons to defend the walls, and old men fought as well, tottering out of their stone houses with ancient swords and forgetting for a while their infirmity. It was at this siege that Old Man Fastred met Tuoronen the Gondorian, a man of great age even in the reckoning of those of Númenórean descent, and the two formed a friendship which lasted even into the years after the war.

Barrage after barrage of arrow fire rained down upon the attackers who besieged Dol Amroth, and cauldrons of boiling water and oil were emptied upon those who swarmed at the base of the walls. Many a man and orc were burned alive in the steaming downpour, and few dared go where the water and oil had seared the ground. The city became known as a place of dread to the forces of Mordor and they began to fear it as though it were accursed and inhabited by demons. The men of the West were heartened by the dismay of their enemies and fought on the fiercer, fey and fell in their wild fury and not even the horror caused by the Nazgûl who wheeled and shrieked overhead could tame the passion of their wrath. Mordor's own forces became even harder to control, for the orcs and men would fain be beaten by their captains than die at the hands of the mad Tarks and Strawheads.

Great was the slaughter until at last the forces of the Enemy lost heart in the middle of that month and let Dol Amroth be for a time. The people cheered from the walls of the city, and great was the rejoicing for all were besotted by the sweetness of their victory. A great number of Riders and men on foot came out and chased the black horde as it retreated, slaying all whose legs did not carry them fast enough. They laughed and sang as they swung their swords, almost fey in their delight, for they had triumphed over their enemies.

But there is a time for gladness, and this was not it, for the West had only won a battle and not the war. Even as the people rejoiced in their triumph at Dol Amroth, a great host of orcs and fell men was traveling towards the eastern border of the Riddermark, a land which lay almost defenseless against the onslaught of the black hordes.

In the South, it seemed that the Dark Power had been weakened for the time, but that was not so; nay, this was just the first phase of His attack. There would be many more ere the end. Sauron sat long in deep thought, brooding upon the past, His mind pondering a great evil. Not only darkness could be borne upon an east wind. The Dark Lord smiled and chuckled softly.

* * *

Sax (also spelled saex, saexe) - A short sword or long knife. Interestingly enough, Pippin's barrow-blade was called a sax by Denethor in an older version of Lord of the Rings. "Denethor says of Pippin's sword: Surely it is a sax wrought by our own folk in the North in the deep past?', where RK has 'blade' and 'kindred.' The word sax (Old English seax, dagger, short sword) was the final choice in the draft after rejection of 'blade,' 'knife' and 'dagger.'" - Notes on Minas Tirith, The War of the Ring, History of Middle-earth Volume VIII, edited by Christopher Tolkien.


	5. Raiders in the Night

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The early night was dark and all was still save for an occasional peeping of the chickens roosting upon the windowsill. The embers in the brazier softly glowed in the darkness of the house, and smoke slowly curled up and out through the hole in the top of the thatched roof. Mixing with the smell of wood smoke was the scent of dried herbs which were thrown down upon the straw-covered floor in an attempt to repel fleas and sweeten the stale air. Wrapped tightly in warm blankets, Athelthryth and her two daughters slept peacefully upon a large straw mat, Brúwann the hound nestled against Elffled's back. It was unseasonably cold this night in late May, for the light and heat of the sun was still obscured by the clouds from the East.

Life had been a hardship these past three months. To try to conserve their waning supplies, they ate little and often went hungry. The grasses and shrubs were dry from the draught, and they had to pasture the cow and her calf further and further away from the house, an unpleasant chore which everyone dreaded. The pig made do scavenging for roots outside the garth, but seldom did he get any scraps from Athelthryth's table. What remainders of a meal that she and her daughters would not consume were given to Brúwann, but he ate considerably less now and his ribs showed beneath his dulled coat.

The creek had gone dry some time back, but Athelthryth and her daughters were too frightened to dig the well in the darkness. Her husband's undertaking remained abandoned, the pile of excess dirt from the digging left untouched like a mound set aside for the memory of better days. Instead, they obtained their water from Leofgifu, who had a well which went deep into the springs of the earth. Athelthryth and the twins often sojourned with Leofgifu and her daughter, or with the family of Eadbald's brother, Egbert, for there was comfort in the closeness of family ties in this dark time.

There was little hope now that the men would return, except perhaps as wandering wraiths in the dead of night. The uncertainty was a withering blight upon the senses, for Athelthryth and her two daughters knew not whether to mourn for them or to imagine them alive and well, fighting somewhere in vague lands to the South. As times grew more desperate, tempers grew thinner, and the sisters often bickered with each other and their mother. Athelthryth struggled to keep her small family together, but it was growing more difficult. Every day she worried about the time when the food would run out. What then? She could go to her neighbors for help, but their cupboards were rapidly diminishing, too. Still, though, she never turned away any traveler who came begging for food or shelter. Somehow they would survive.

Elfhild tried not to think about the war and busied herself with other matters, for she dared not fall into despair. She had always tried to make the best of any situation - no matter how horrible - and find pleasant ways to distract herself and those around her from sorrow and grief. Now more than ever she needed to be strong like her mother. Yet she still felt like a frightened little girl who missed her father, brother and uncles most desperately.

The night wore on. Elfhild's dreams were of better times, and in her sleepy thoughts, she and her family lived their lives as they always had, tending to the animals and the garden. The grass was long and green, shimmering silver as it bent in the folds of the wind, and the land was lit with a misty, golden haze. She giggled and laughed as she rode Thunorlic at a canter, the tangled yellow mess of her hair bouncing up and down as the horse's hooves beat the dusty path towards the village. A stray chicken feather which had been caught in her hair dislodged itself from the unruly, knotted strands and blew away in the wind.

The sentry lay dead upon the withered grass; his horse, unnerved, ran to and fro in the darkness. Keen eyes pierced the gloom as many feet moved quickly and stealthily, darting around the great boles of the trees. "Halt! Who goes there?" the gruff voice of another sentry demanded before his life was snuffed out like a candle. An arrow twanged from a bowstring, and a body fell to the ground. A silent tension brewed like a spring storm in the still, heavy air.

The night wore on. Athelthryth murmured her husband's name in her sleep, her brow furrowing and eyes twitching from beneath closed lids. She turned over on her side and then was still.

The horses were nervous; the riders could feel their bodies tense beneath the saddle. One steed snorted and then shied sideways. Struck by arrows, two men toppled from their skittish mounts. In response, their comrades blindly unleashed their arrows into the darkness. Shadows stirred beneath the trees and soon took shape. There was fighting on the western eaves of the silent forest of Everholt, but the sounds of steel against steel did not whisper in the Whispering Wood.

The night wore on. Worsted in the fight, the riders were forced to retreat to the north and their enemies gave chase. No tidings of peril would reach Grenefeld that night. Heavy boots thudded against the dry ground as the enemy force relentlessly advanced towards the small village.

Elffled's sleep was restless and filled with vague dreams that were unmemorable but yet somehow troubling. She thought she felt Brúwann stirring, his body nudging against hers as he rose to his feet. He was restless and she heard him pacing about the little hut. The hound whined every now and then, but soon he returned to the straw and lay down beside her with a sigh. Some time later, she heard him again, more distinctly this time, growling at something in a low, deep sound of warning.

Elffled turned over and rubbed her eyes. Brúwann continued to growl into the darkness. "Hild," she mumbled, pushing her sister slightly. "Wake up. The dog is upset."

Elfhild stirred and sat up. Brúwann growled even louder and began to pace before their straw bed, his steps quick and furtive, his brown eyes darting back and forth from them to the door. Something about his movements was very disconcerting, and Elfhild became alarmed, for after three months lived in a state of almost constant fear, anything out of the ordinary frightened her. "Mother," she whispered urgently, shaking her mother's shoulder. "Something is wrong."

Athelthryth sensed danger in her daughter's tone and was instantly awake. Preparing to defend their home, she grabbed the iron-bladed sax which rested beside her pillow. "What is it?" she whispered back, her voice low and worried.

"I do not know," replied Elfhild. Brúwann began to snarl at the door. His fangs were bared, his ears were flat against his head and the hair on his neck and shoulders rose up in stiff bristles, giving him a most ferocious appearance. Never before had the gentle hound acted so strangely and all three were taken aback, but even more frightening still were the thoughts of what had caused this sudden change.

With trembling hands, the two maidens fumbled through the straw to find their blades, and then they were quickly upon their feet, shrinking to their mother's side for protection. Licking her dry lips and keeping her eyes upon the door, Athelthryth stood at the ready, her hand tightly wrapped about the handle of her knife. She thought about grabbing her daughters' hands and then running, but her hopes were crushed when she remembered that both doors led to the same side of the house. To try to escape that way would only deliver them into the hands of what might be lurking outside. "The window," she thought desperately, but knew they would not get far if the house was surrounded. It would be out of the frying pan and into the fire, as the old saying went.

There was no choice but to hold her ground. A bead of sweat trickled down her brow; she clenched the handle of the sax, taking comfort in its weight. Athelthryth had no sisters, and so, when she was a child, she had played boys' games with her brother, pretending to be soldiers and sparring with wooden swords. She was actually rather good at it; at least as good as anyone who had no official training in sword fighting. She never thought that this skill would come in handy, but now it seemed that it might. At least she had possessed the good sense to practice sparring with her daughters during the long, weary nights of darkness.

Elfhild swallowed, her heart pounding and her limbs trembling. Her eyes darted between the door to the outside and the door to where the animals were kept. She could hear the noises of the cow and her calf as they moved restlessly about in their stalls and the indignant cackling of the chickens, who were irritated at being roused from their slumber. Her sister had always found that sound amusing, but now it terrified her just as much as Brúwann's unrest.

Soon, the hound's snarling turned into furious barking. Elfhild's eyes darted to the window. The little black and white rooster was standing now upon his stubby legs, his feathery body quivering with the intensity of his cackling. The hens beside him were upset and shifted their positions upon the narrow sill.

"Open up in there!" Athelthryth and her daughters heard a harsh voice demand. The words were spoken in Common Speech, though the tongue was slaughtered by the speaker's guttural voice, which sounded more animal than human.

"Oh, Mother!" A sob unbidden tore itself from Elffled's throat and she clung desperately to her mother's arm. "What are we going to do?"

"I am frightened," Elfhild whimpered fretfully and clenched her legs tightly together, overcome with the sudden urge to urinate all over herself.

"Get back," Athelthryth whispered, prying Elffled's fingers away and shoving her against the wall.

Fists pounded upon the door. The three terrified women heard grunts as heavy bodies hurled themselves against the door, trying to tear it from its hinges. The door shook in its frame and then swung open, crashing against the side of the wall.

A band of orcs stormed into the room. Great Black Uruks of the Dark Land, they were almost as tall as men, with hunched backs and long arms. The three women shrieked. A warm stream of urine trickled down Elfhild's thighs as her bladder released in terror. Squawking in alarm, the chickens flew from the windowsill, loose feathers fluttering down into the straw. The cow and her calf lowed to each other, the cow becoming frantic when she could not reach her calf in the adjoining stall.

Brúwann lunged at the sword arm of one of the raiders, but was quickly thrown aside by a sideways swipe of a wicked blade. With a yelp of pain, the hound landed in the straw. Whimpering, he tried to stand but fell back on his side and lay there panting. Elfhild and Elffled screamed again, but poor Brúwann was to lie there helpless and dying. Athelthryth and her two daughters had their own troubles.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? Three wenches pretending to be horse-boys with their silly little table knives!" chortled the uruk who seemed to be in command of the raiders. He was a mighty warrior whose prominent underbite made him look like a cross between a bulldog and an ogre. About his neck was a necklace made of bones from which hung the ghastly pendant of a human skull. Elfhild felt lightheaded when she saw this gruesome sight, for the tiny skull was much too small to be that of an adult.

"If you don't want to end up like your poor little doggy," the uruk growled menacingly, "then you'll lay down your weapons and come along with us quietly." His eyes gleaming with an evil yellow light, he licked slowly over his bulbous lips with a thick, saliva-coated tongue. "Speak of diamonds in the rough!" he gloated to himself. This squalid little shack contained three beauties, all of whom were exquisite, although the eldest was truly delectable, with breasts as big as ripe melons. How they rose up and down as her chest heaved in terror! And hips! His eyes glittering with primal lust, he watched as she shifted her position, her hips moving against the thin material of her gown. The wench had a comely face, too, but who really looked at that?

How he would like to tear off her flimsy garment, grab her buttocks with his taloned fingers, and sink his fleshly pike into her waiting cunny. She would provide him with a good bit of fun and then he would have the other two for dessert. But, alas, such pleasures were not to be. All three of the wenches would fetch a pretty price with the slavers, and his pockets would soon be bulging as much as his breeches were now.

Athelthryth saw the lust in the raiders' eyes and a chill went down her spine. Surrender meant nothing to these fiends, for they would surely rape her and her daughters before carrying them off to their filthy lairs. They would receive no mercy at the foul, bloodstained hands of such beasts! Far better it was to fight and die than to endure such a fate!

Their backs pressed against the wall behind their mother, the sisters looked beyond her to see a line of gleaming yellow eyes in the muted darkness of the cottage. The glow of the brazier reflecting upon their wicked blades, the invaders slowly advanced. A breeze blew through the ruined doorway, and Elfhild's urine-soaked gown felt unpleasantly cool as it clung heavily to her thighs and legs. She scarcely noticed her discomfort, though, for she was too frightened to care. It was all she could do to keep from convulsing into a trembling mass upon the floor.

Elffled looked down at the knife in her hand. She had never used a knife for anything other than cooking or eating, and it seemed strange to hold one now to protect herself against enemies. She tried to control the trembling in her sweat-covered fingers, lest the knife slip from her grasp and fall to the floor. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and gripped the handle tightly, clutching it for comfort as though it were the arm of a favorite doll. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and she gritted them until they hurt.

"Don't want to surrender, eh? That's fine with me." The big uruk sauntered towards them, his hardened prong jutting out his breeches. "There's nothing that makes me prick shoot up straight and stiff faster than a big-chested woman who wants to fight!" Laughing uproariously, he rubbed his hand over his crotch.

"Har! Har! Har!" the other orcs joined in his laughter. "If he doesn't plant an imp in yer bellies, we will!"

A lewd grin spread over the big uruk's face. "Now if you don't want a quick tumble in the straw with my lads and me, you'll quit resisting and surrender!" The uruk was bluffing, of course, but there was nothing like a threat to put the heat under a recalcitrant captive.

"Never!" With a dreadful cry, Athelthryth charged the orcs with all the ferocity of a she-wolf defending her den. They would not be expecting a woman to attack them, and she would have the advantage of surprise on her side. Perhaps if she were very lucky, she might be able to take one or two of them down quickly and frighten the rest of them away. If she did not manage to survive, at least perhaps the distraction of the fighting would provide her daughters a chance to escape.

As Athelthryth had hoped, the orcs were indeed startled and taken aback, for they had thought they were facing only a lone woman and two girls. Athelthryth, though, was hardly willing to be subdued, conquered, and raped by orcs. Nay, she was a woman of Rohan, fey in her desperation, for all was indeed lost and there was no escape. She had never thought of dying a hero's death, but now when it seemed as though everything was lost, perhaps her life would not be a waste if she could save her daughters.

Her blade bit into the neck of one of the orcs, and with a gurgling scream, he fell to the ground, clutching his throat. The blood-covered knife clenched in her hand, Athelthryth turned her blazing blue eyes to the rest of the band and slashed at the nearest orc, taking off his pointed ear. Howling in pain, the beast clutched at the side of his head and swung wildly at Athelthryth's head. Ducking, she dodged his blow and thrust her knife deep into his belly. For a moment, the blade caught, and as she struggled to free the weapon, two more of the fiends advanced upon her. Finally tugging it loose, she panted as she turned to face them.

The fight that ensued was fierce and frantic. Half of the band still wanted to capture the three women, but the other half wished to avenge their dead. Most viciously did they come at Athelthryth, but she was able to dodge or deflect their blows, and her daughters valiantly came to her aid. First there was an enemy to the right, and then to the left, and then in the front. The twins slashed and stabbed with abandon, wondering if they had hit flesh but not having time enough to think upon the matter, for just as one enemy recoiled, another one replaced him.

With dreadful cries, the orcs fought the fiercer, and whether the fight lasted for mere seconds or for long moments, no one could judge at the time. With howling screams and shrieks, Athelthryth fought like a wild thing. In this moment, she was a shieldmaiden, a true daughter of Eorl, and she fought as fiercely as any man, for the lust of battle was upon her. No longer was she a woman of flesh and blood, mother and wife, but a spirit of fire, burning brightly in the bitter night, scorching and withering her enemies in the heat of her wrath.

Elfhild and Elffled were desperately trying to hold their own, but Athelthryth was locked in bitter combat with an orc just a little shorter than she. He was skilled with a blade, more so than the others, and he was not timid in his fighting like some of his comrades. Athelthryth rushed at him, trying to take him by surprise, but she missed his throat as he drew back his head, and her blade slashed across his shoulder. He bellowed in pain and thrust his own blade forward, driving it into her stomach and pinning her to the supporting beam of the house. Her fingers twitched in agony and the sax fell from her hands.

Elfhild and Elffled screamed. With a grunt, the orc pulled back his knife. Athelthryth's knees buckled and she slid down the wall, landing on her side in a heap upon the straw. She gasped for breath and grabbed her stomach with a shaking hand, her quivering fingers clutching at the fabric of her blood-soaked shift.

"Mother!" Elffled screamed and dropped her knife. Abandoning the fight, she rushed to her mother's side. "Mother! Mother!" she cried, grasping her mother's hand tightly. Athelthryth struggled to make out the features of her daughter's face, to say some words by which she could be remembered. But she could do naught, and the last thing Elffled saw were the corners of her mother's mouth feebly twitch up into a weak smile, and the last thing she felt was the faint squeeze of her mother's hand. Then all went black, and Elffled wandered in lands beyond the reckoning of time.

It all happened so quickly. Her mother now lay upon the ground, her eyes closed, and Elffled was slumped over her form. Elfhild could barely believe all that had transpired in a mere moment of time. Now fury burnt within her and with a shriek of blood and death, she twisted away from the grabbing arms of her attackers and leapt upon the orc who had slain her mother. Taken by surprise, the sword clattered out of the orc's hand and he fell backwards with a scream with Elfhild atop him.

Again and again Elfhild drove the blade into his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wept in the great anguish of her heart. She felt her blade pierce flesh with each plunge, the orc's eyes and mouth soft and yielding to the iron of her sax, and heard the sickening crunch of bone when she struck his skull. Black blood spurted and gushed out from riven flesh, and her knife swam in it, the heavy dark liquid splashing up on her hands and face like droplets of murky water.

But she saw naught of this, for a madness had taken her mind, and though little time passed, mere moments felt like an eternity to her. She saw the orc's face, leering at her and laughing. He laughed and laughed, no matter how many times she stabbed, now matter how much blood spurted up in her face, no matter how much gore flew up and hit her cheeks. She became convinced that her foe was a fell demon gifted with life everlasting. She screamed in fury, and swore she would kill the damned fiend if she had to rip his throat out with her teeth. Great wrenching anguish tore at her heart and breathing was painful, but life was worse. She just wanted to die, to embrace death and end it all, to join her mother and sleep beside her in her bed. But what bed would they have? No mound, no marking stone; nothing would remain to remember them by. No weregild would there be for Athelthryth daughter of Athelstan, but her daughter would avenge her death. The bastard spawn of unholy demons would pay and pay dearly!

Her body quivered and her heart pounded. Great sobs racked her frame. She was vaguely aware that hands were upon her, and she found herself being pushed backwards. Soon she was lying upon her back, and a clawed hand held her arm in a grip of iron. Her wrist was beaten against a small wooden trunk along the wall, and she felt her fingers twitch and let go of the handle of the sax. She was hauled to her feet by her hair and a hand under her arm, and her cheek stung as her face was slapped. Then she felt herself being lifted and thrown over an armored shoulder, and she lay there and fought no more.

Elfhild felt cool air upon her face and no longer did she smell the scent of smoke and wood. The orc lowered her to the ground and set a guard around her and her sister. Elfhild sat there for a moment and then blearily opened her sandy eyes. The night was dark and she could hear harsh voices all around her, some of the raiders gathering up her family's possessions and others tending to their wounds. The cow and her calf bawled as they were led from the house, and the chickens squawked frantically as they fled from the orcs into the darkness. The pig, too, evaded them, darting to and fro as two of the raiders gave chase.

Beside her, Elfhild saw her sister; she was lying upon the ground and did not move. She reached for her and drew her head up on her lap; she felt something moist upon her fingertips and knew that her sister must be bleeding. Bending her head, Elfhild wept softly over her, giving no heed to what was going on around them.

In and out of the house the orcs went, taking all that they could carry, which was not very much, for the Eadbaldings had little. The treasures of this horde were lowly pots and pans, tools, worn woolen clothing, dried food and supplies. The only things of higher value were a few bronze brooches and a string of glass beads, and these baubles were worthless compared to the silver and gold of great halls. After the hut had been sacked, the raiders set it on fire and the flames shot up into the night sky and pierced the gloom with a bright amber glow.

Elfhild looked up and saw the blaze; all that she had known for years was burning in a great reek. She stared at the flames as though in a trance, her mind still struggling to comprehend all that had befallen in just one night. She wondered if it was all a dream, a nightmare from which she would awake; perhaps she had fallen and hit her head and this was only a phantom which plagued her tormented sleep. Her mother was dead and she did not know how her sister fared; all was burning, burning, and naught would be left save ashes and memories. Yet no illusion or dream was this evil woe, but of the waking world and therefore much more cruel. Elfhild bent her head and wept once more.


	6. The Bitter Cost of Strife

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Something lumpy and soft was tossed at Elfhild and it bounced off her shoulder, hitting the ground, but she paid little heed to it. How long she had sat there holding her sister's unmoving form she did not know, for her heart was filled with grief and despair and the reckoning of time mattered little. Though her head was bowed, she sensed several presences around her and heard their foul voices speak in a tongue strange and harsh. "Orcs," she thought, and she would have shuddered had her heart been able to summon forth fear from beneath the impenetrable depths of sorrow which filled it to the brink. Instead, she stroked her sister's tangled hair and looked down at her face; so pale it was in the dim, flickering light created by the flames which consumed their home. All Elfhild's limbs felt leaden, and save for the gentle movements of her hand, she sat there in solemn silence like a standing stone looming over one of the mounds of the fallen.

"Up! Up! On your feet! We don't have all night! Put on your rags and be quick about it," Elfhild heard a rough voice command. The words were spoken in Common Speech, but they were no more pleasant than the first language, and they were heavy with a snarling accent which grated upon the ears.

Stirring slowly as though coming out of a dragon-spell, Elfhild raised her head. Her eyes were bleary and stung from the salt of her tears, but she could see the dark forms of about six orcs against the steady blaze of her burning home. In front of her stood a big orc with strong and sinewy arms; tall as a man he was. Though she could not see his eyes, she could sense his hostile gaze, but at that moment, she cared little if she lived or died. The outline of his armor of boiled leather and mail was outlined in the light of the fire and in his hand was a spear, which he pointed menacingly at her. "Hwæt?" she murmured softly, her voice like that of a sleepwalker.

"You're coming with us, so don't try anything funny. You're our captive now! I, Barzkhûral, am in charge of this band. You'll do what I say. No more fighting, no more struggling. Understand?" The orc paused, looking down at Elfhild. At his words, her heart plunged deeper into the bitter mire of despair and her eyes filled with tears. She looked away from him, evading his burning gaze. "Get dressed," he repeated gruffly. "Your stuff is tied up in here."

He used his spear to push a small bundle towards Elfhild. She cast a glance to her side and recognized one of the sheets that had been upon her family's bed; so that was the soft object which had been thrown at her. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks now as her thoughts filled with memories. When she was little, her mother would sing her to sleep; even now did she hear the strains of the soft melodies in her mind. "We've a long march ahead of us; about five miles to the border," Barzkhûral continued, and Elfhild looked up at the brute. "After that, you'll have an even longer journey, so best you choose sturdy garments. But don't be too choosy now; make haste or I'll have the both of you march naked." His words were met by a few snickers and bawdy remarks from the other uruks.

It took a few moments for Elfhild to comprehend fully what the orc-chieftain had told her, for it had been a while since she had heard Common Speech, and never from the mouths of foul creatures such as these. "My - my sister is hurt," Elfhild said slowly, recalling the proper words. "She bleeds and moves not."

"Grishpilik!" he ordered, turning to a shorter orc at his side. "Wake the sick one and treat any wounds. If she's hurt too badly, kill her. We must get back to the army before the accursed horse-boys come back and bring some of their friends with them this time."

"Old Sharahoital must have got her real good, eh? Ai, I hope he cracked her skull, I do. Would have served the little filth right," retorted one of the orcs, snickering and hissing to himself in a low, malicious voice.

"If I had my way, I'd like to wake her up with my dagger," the one called Grishpilik snarled and spat on the ground.

"They killed our kin!" cried one of the orcs. "We should kill these two; let 'em join the older one."

"Make their deaths long and painful; strip 'em and let 'em feel the lash, then skin 'em alive with hot knives, good and slow!" another shouted.

With that, the band of raiders erupted into wrathful shouts and curses, for greatly had Athelthryth and her two daughters angered them, and they sought vengeance for their dead. Though the orcs were a cruel race and little mercy did they possess, they were not wholly incapable of sadness. They felt a kinship with favored members of their tribes and admired strong, savage warriors who had been in many battles and felled many an enemy. "Matum! Matum!" they cried in dreadful voices and shook their fists in the air. "Az maalfloku! Matum rûk-hai-u!"

Elfhild cringed and closed her eyes tightly. Great waves of trembling beset her body and she shivered and shook as she held her sister. She wondered what death would be like. Oft she had heard her family speak of kinsmen or friends who had fallen on the marches, and always had the slain been referred to as going to their fathers. Yet the legends of the Eorlingas were filled also with tales of the unquiet dead. Sometimes these were evil shades bound to the earth by curses, or the wraiths of kings who would fight once more in battle, slaying their enemies with fear itself and no weapon wrought of iron or steel. And then there were the wights, but Elfhild refused even to think of them in this hour of peril.

What would befall her when she died? When someone went to their fathers she had always imagined some vague place, a great hall perhaps, like those of the Mark, but far fairer. And in this hall she fancied that the heroes of song and legend would sit around the feasting table, passing around ornately carven drinking horns filled with the finest mead and telling the tales of their lives. Would she soon walk through the bejeweled doors of this hall, hand and hand with her sister, to meet their mother waiting for them and welcoming them with tender embraces and sweet kisses? Or would her shade linger, sorrowfully haunting the place where she had died, or mayhaps even traverse to and fro between Middengeard and infinite realms beyond the reckoning of Men?

"Silence!" bellowed Barzkhûral, his voice sudden and unexpected like a thunderclap on a clear day. Elfhild let out a squeak of surprise, but except for that frightened sound, all was deathly still. An uneasy silence had descended, and the night air was tense with passions which longed to escape the constraints which had been forced upon them. "No killing!" Barzkhûral bellowed again when he was sure of the attention of his lads. "There shan't be any of that, much as we'd like otherwise. Orders are orders, and we're not to spoil the captives. That won't fare well with the Higher Ups, and when they're not pleased, someone always pays. I don't know about you lads, but I know I don't want to have the flesh flailed off my back, not for these wenches anyway." Dismayed by the thought of punishment, the angry shouts and cries soon were replaced by mutterings of disappointment which trailed off into unintelligible yet vile sounding curses.

With a stifled cry of anger and a spit on the ground, Grishpilik suddenly lumbered over to where Elffled lay, her head resting upon her sister's lap. Suddenly he bent down and, in one swift motion, seized a handful of Elffled's shift, ripping her from Elfhild's arms and dragging the maiden roughly to her feet. She hung there limply, her arms dangling and her head lolling back and forth, her mind lost in dark oblivion. "Wake up, you wretched piece of horse dung!" the orc shrieked in her ear, but she heard him not.

The spell of sorrow which had dulled Elfhild's senses was broken and was replaced by fear, for in the hands of her enemies was the only one whom she had left. In her mind, she saw her mother die again; she saw her lying upon the straw-covered floor, bleeding and in agony, and this time in her anguished thoughts her sister lay beside her mother, her soft voice moaning in the throes of death. "La! Mín sweostor!" Elfhild screamed in her own tongue, forgetting in her panic to speak in Common Speech. "Na ætegiath mín sweostor!"

"Keep quiet!" the orc-chieftain bellowed angrily and shook his spear in Elfhild's face. She cringed away from him, whimpering and frightened, but her eyes never left her sister's motionless form.

Grishpilik forced the mouth of a flask between Elffled's parted lips and she came back to the world of the waking, coughing and sputtering on the burning liquid. She flailed her arms desperately, but a strong hand held her fast. Her head was throbbing and the sounds of cruel laughing and cheering seemed to pulsate and echo off the walls of her skull. She felt herself being set upon her feet and she stood there in a stupor, swaying back and forth as a hot glow filled her body. Splotches of black and red swam across her vision and she broke out in a sweat, moaning as a wave of sickness washed over her. Convulsions seized her stomach and her whole body lurched and shook as she emptied the contents of her belly upon the dry ground. Then her legs became weak and she collapsed upon the grass in another swoon, just narrowly missing the place where she had retched.

The orcs laughed all the louder and Grishpilik kicked Elffled fully on her rump, causing the maid to be knocked forward on the ground, but still she did not stir. The band erupted in raucous cheers and hoots. "Ná!" screamed Elfhild, almost mad with fear. "Héo is legerfæst! Na ætegiath mín sweostor!" She leaned forward, reaching for Elffled.

The orcs howled in their cruel mirth and Grishpilik lunged suddenly at Elfhild, wielding a dagger with a wicked looking jagged blade. Her eyes widened in horror and she screamed, falling backwards to the ground from where she sat. Trembling, she lay there on her back as the orc hovered over her, the point of his blade at her throat. "We paid a precious price for you and your wretched sister, filthy little paleskin wench," the orc hissed, his hideous voice low and dangerous, "much more than you are worth. If I had my way, I'd kill the both of you, but," his gaze went down to her breasts and then roved over her lean form, "mayhaps I'd have a little fun first." He howled in laughter, then bent down and blew his fetid breath in her face, licking his hideous lips with a long red tongue.

"Ho la there! What did I say? No spoiling of captives!" bellowed the commander. "Remember orders! They are to be brought back alive and unharmed if possible, or else all of us will suffer. There's a rumor going around that the bosses have me in mind for a promotion, and I don't want you louts to make them change their minds! We don't get paid for bringing in dead captives, and I've got a feeling that the Higher Ups won't be too overjoyed to hear about Sharahoital's running that older one through. It's the booty they want, captives and loot; they don't care about us any."

"Urkta! Urkta!" Grishpilik hissed and then straightened himself. Elfhild lay upon the ground, her eyes tightly closed and all her limbs quaking with utter terror. "A whole lot of trouble these wenches are and not worth it either, not for gold - or for promotions. They fight like the horse-boys and kill our kin, and yet we are not supposed to lay even a finger upon them?" He spat to the side. "The price set on these treasures is far too high and little payment we'll get for our woes!" The other orcs voiced their agreement, their speech like the snarls and growls of starving wolves fighting over a piece of meat which was rancid even for their tastes but still desirable because they wanted their bellies filled.

"Silence!" the chieftain demanded again. "Sharahoital, Azaluk and Karnnaakh were my kin as well. If I had my wishes, I'd tumble with the wenches and ride them 'til they bled like stuck hogs and couldn't stand anymore. Then I'd give 'em some draught and have a little sport with dagger and whip, and finally I'd kill them, all good and proper like, and hew their bodies to bits. But they aren't mine to do with as I would, so I can't have my way with 'em. Remember this, too: I, Barzkhûral, am in charge of this band. I'm only being nice to you maggots because of the fallen; otherwise I wouldn't be so damned lenient. What I say is law. I command! Obey me, or I'll have the lot of you whipped or worse, even if we are kin."

Grishpilik let out a resentful hiss, but Barzkhûral did not give him or the others a chance to protest further. "Now wake that filthy wench again, and put some salve on the back of her head. And you, the other wench, get your clothes on!" He lunged at Elfhild with his spear, but stopped far short of actually touching her with the steel point. The feigned attack had the desirable effect, though, for Elfhild screamed in fear and half-crawled, half-stumbled away from the chieftain. A few of the orcs snickered, but most remained quiet, losing interest in any sport save torture and killing. When she realized that the chieftain was only having a bit of cruel amusement and did not plan to kill her, Elfhild furtively crawled back to the bundle and, with trembling hands, untied the knot which loosely held the four corners of the sheet.

Grumbling and muttering under their breath, Grishpilik and another orc went over to Elffled and pulled her into a sitting position. More of the foul tasting draught was poured down her throat, and once again she was forced back into wakefulness, choking and coughing. Taking something out of a small box, Grishpilik yanked Elffled forward by her hair. She felt something hot and burning spread across the back of her head and then a long strip of material was wound about it several times, binding the wound. She whimpered in pain but was given no rest and was roughly pulled to her feet.

The dark world swayed to and fro precariously like a tree caught in the midst of a raging storm, and it seemed to Elffled that a million dwarves were smithying inside her skull. Her head hurt horribly and she could not understand why she was outside and not sleeping peacefully in her bed. The air was filled with the smell of burning; a large blaze stood in the midst of the garth. Her brow furrowed in confusion. The fire was where her home once had stood, but now no beams remained standing, just a pile of fallen timber which the flames steadily consumed. All around her monsters milled about, nightmarish forms which seemed like walking phantoms of dreams in her befuddled state. She felt frightened and helpless and looked around desperately for her mother or sister. "Módor? Elfhild?" she whispered into the darkness.

"Ho la! The little lady finally wakes! Enjoy your slumber, fair one?" sneered an evil voice. Elffled turned around and saw the looming shape of one of the orcs. She gasped and backed away, her head spinning in pain and confusion. "Well, I shall give you tidings of all that transpired while you were dreaming. I, Barzkhûral, command this band, and you and your sister are our captives. You're going to have a long journey ahead of you, so you best be getting ready. Wench! Wench!" he demanded, pointing to Elfhild. "Get your worthless pelt over here and bring that bag of rags, and be quick about it."

Obediently, Elfhild gathered up the ends of the sheet in her hand and moved to her sister's side, handing her the bundle. Worry was in her eyes and she studied her twin's face. "Are you hurt badly?" she whispered in her own tongue.

"My head... it hurts..." murmured Elffled in the same language, pointing absently in the air. "I-"

"No talking! Too much time has already been wasted. Get your clothes on, and let's get a move on - NOW!" the orc-chieftain demanded. He began to bark out orders for the other orcs. "All right, you maggots! Gather up the loot and let's be leaving this place. I don't like this open country - feel too much like a walking target for some damned paleskin out here in the flat-lands. Ho! You over there!" he bellowed at a few of the orcs who had gotten into a quarrel over an iron knife carven with the design of a galloping horse. "Quit fighting and get over here! And you two-" he screamed at two of the orcs who were sitting down on the grass and biting off pieces of dried meat, "-quit stuffing your guts! This ain't a picnic!"

More orders were bellowed out until at last the band of orcs was under control and ready to march back towards the army of the Dark Land with their captives and stolen loot. Elfhild and Elffled, now clad in sturdy traveling clothes, stood in their midst. The two maidens were guarded by a wall of bristling spears and their hands were tied behind their backs. Elffled was given another draught of the burning liquor and the relentless drumming in her head was relieved somewhat. Her thoughts became clearer and she could remember the orcs charging into their house like a swarm of black bees, but she could remember little of anything else that happened that night. However, it hurt to think for too long and she quickly became frightened and disoriented. Yet no matter how addled her state was, she knew her mother was nowhere to be seen and their house had burnt to the ground. A sense of peace and calm filled her - the strange indifference that comes when one is struck by sudden tragedy - and she watched the world around her as though observing from afar. Naught felt real to her; it was all just a horrible dream or a tale which she was hearing and all would end well when the rest of the story was told.

Barzkhûral gave the order to march. Elfhild looked back at the place where her home had been, trying to recall what it looked like in better days. Her eyes welled up with tears. A whole life, a whole world, was shattered in one night. All that she had known had been destroyed. She felt like falling to the ground and lying there, never to rise again, but the sharp sting of a spear digging into her back encouraged her feet to move.

The raiders began to march, their heavy iron boots striking the dry, brittle grass. The two maidens were jostled along with the mass of stomping orcs, and if their steps became too slow, they would feel the prick of a spear point against their skin. Elfhild turned her head and furtively looked back, but all she could see was a dull glow from between the hulking forms of the orcs behind her. Then, with tear-filled eyes, she turned her head and looked into the darkness before her.

* * *

"Hwæt?" - "What?"  
"La! Mín sweostor! Na ætegiath mín sweostor!" - Oh! My sister! Do not hurt my sister!"  
"Héo is legerfæst!" - "She is sick!"  
"Módor?" - "Mother?"  
"Matum! Matum! Az maalfloku! Matum rûk-hai-u!" - "Death! Death! Kill the yellow-hairs! Death to the horse folk!"

NAMES  
Barzkhûral (Throat Ripper - barz=throat; rip=khûr; -al verb/noun suffix.)  
Grishpilik (Blood Axe - grish=blood; pilik=axe.)  
Sharahoital (Man Hunter - shara=man; hoital=hunter.)  
Karnnaakh (Red Hand = karn=red; naakh=hand.)  
Azaluk (Killer of All - az=kill; uk=all; -al noun/verb suffix.)  
All Black Speech names and words are in the Land of Shadows dialect.

This story was greatly inspired by this line in "The Uruk-Hai" in The Two Towers: "'Not our orders!' said one of the earlier voices. 'We have come all the way from the Mines to kill, and avenge our folk. I wish to kill, and then go back north.'" This group of northern orcs came from the Mines of Moria and sought their revenge upon Merry and Pippin, for the two Hobbits were members of the Fellowship which had killed some of their people.

And yes, orcs do copulate and produce offspring, both with other orcs and with humans. "For the Orcs had life and multiplied after the manner of the Children of Ilúvatar; and naught that had life of its own, nor the semblance of life, could ever Melkor make since his rebellion in the Ainulindalë before the Beginning: so say the wise." - Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor, The Silmarillion

And never forget Bolg son of Azog, both orcs. "Azog was the father of Bolg; see The Hobbit, 33." - Footnote in Appendix A, Durin's Folk, Return of the King


	7. East Away

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The two maidens marched through the darkness, their leather shoes sinking softly into the carpet of dried grass. They feared they would stumble and fall in the heavy gloom, for the ground was uneven and they could not use their arms to steady themselves. Elfhild's mind was a battlefield where sorrow vied with anger and fear vied with bravery, and she reeled from the intensity of her troubled thoughts which came at her like arrow fire. Her mother had been slain; her sister had been wounded; Brúwann their hound had been killed; and their home had been sacked and destroyed. For the first time, she had felt the fury of battle and the angry flames of bitter passion; her blade had tasted blood and all her limbs had trembled with wrath and vegance. But now she felt helpless and alone, a grieving maiden who mourned for a whole world laid to ruin in a single night.

Soon she saw the flames of another blazing house and smelled the reek of burning straw and wood. Her heart sank further into despair and she winced at the sight; that was where her Uncle Athelwine and Aunt Leofgifu lived. She cast a fearful glance to her sister but Elffled only gazed ahead into the darkness with staring eyes. No comfort could be found in that impassive face, and Elfhild wondered if she was silently suffering or if the blow upon her head had rendered her insensible. Soon several orcs approached their guards and Barzkhûral ordered his lads to hasten to meet the newcomers. These orcs fell in with Barzkhûral's band and Elfhild and Elffled were soon joined by more captives, their aunt Leofgifu and her daughter Hunig, who was sobbing and clinging to her mother's skirts.

"Elfhild! Elffled!" Leofgifu cried, fear and worry upon her face. "What-"

"Silence!" one of the orcs bellowed. "Keep your legs moving and your mouths quiet!"

Elfhild looked at her aunt sadly and began to trudge forward. Dread was in Leofgifu's eyes as they met the sorrowful gaze of her husband's eldest niece and saw the bandaged head and strange stare of indifference upon the face of the younger. In that moment, she perceived all that had befallen them, or at least a part of it, and great was the anguish in her heart. Athelthryth's absence was painfully obvious and her daughters' faces told the whole tale. Though no words were spoken, the grievous tidings were conveyed. Leofgifu closed her eyes tightly and moaned softly in sorrow.

"She was slain," Elfhild whispered. She turned her head, not wanting to meet her aunt's eyes.

"Oh, my dear child, I had guessed as much," Leofgifu replied quietly. "This night is most evil." She and Athletryth had been friends since childhood and she had always admired the younger woman. Athelthryth possessed the confidence that she never had, as well as the beauty. Leofgifu had always been uncertain of herself and despised her own appearance, for she was tall and plain, with a head full of unruly blonde curls and an unmemorable face. Often as they were growing up, she dreamed of somehow trading places with her friend. However, in reality, she would not have wished such a fate on anyone, because of her worthless father. That was another thing she admired about Atheltryth - her father was a good man, not a drunkard who spent all his days in the alehouse. But now her dear friend was dead. Tears welled up in Leofgifu's eyes.

"All is lost," Elfhild choked out. "There is no hope. All is as dark as the night, and the sun shall never rise again."

Elffled looked down at the earth as it sped by her feet, a blur of gray in the gloom. Her sense of time had been distorted and the fight was a dim memory of chaos and fear, more like something that had happened in years past rather than about two hours before. She could not remember how her mother had been slain, and whenever she tried to recall it to mind, her head throbbed all the more. Her mind was floundering in a sea of pain and confusion, and she was uncomfortably reminded of her dreams in which the Mering Stream flooded. Yet at times everything felt dreadfully clear, and it was as though her heart had been turned to ice, for she could reflect upon all that had happened without weeping. Guilt chipped away at her benumbed senses, but she knew that the tears would come soon enough. They always did; it was only a matter of time.

Yet the four were not allowed to mourn or to give solace to one another, for the orcs began to march again, and dragging footsteps were encouraged into swiftness by the points of spears. Behind them they could hear the frantic, guttural bawling of their cattle as the orcs strained to pull the frightened, stubborn animals ahead. Soon the small group reached the Road and there they were joined by a great procession traveling eastward.

There was a large number of orcs, many of whom were as tall as men, and this bewildered Elfhild and Elffled, for in all the songs and tales they had ever heard orcs were described as being short and small. Some of the large creatures were carrying ill-gotten goods while others dragged reluctant beasts. The long arms of a few were laden with blankets, clothing and other supplies piled into great stacks so high that the bearers could barely see where they were going. Occasionally some heavy object would slip and fall and come crashing down upon an unsuspecting foot, and then there would be a yelp of pain followed by curses and threats.

Other orcs herded the women, maidens and children along, guarding them closely and prodding them forward with spears. The hands of the women and girls were bound behind their backs, save for those who had to carry babies or small children. The hands of the children, too, were left unbound, for they would stay close to their mothers and kinsfolk and were too small and scared to cause the orcs much trouble. Some of the captives were frightened and cringing, but others were defiant and struggled against their captors, vexing them in any way they could. Elfhild recognized all of the faces, whether they were kin, close friend or distant acquaintance.

She looked away from this sorrowful sight and her eyes beheld one just as dire. To the west, she saw the orange glow of many different fires scattered out along the landscape; burning houses and outbuildings which the raiders had torched. All of Grenefeld was burning and those who had not escaped had either been taken captive or killed. What had happened to the scouts who patrolled the borders? Why had no one been warned of this attack? Elfhild bit her lip and tears stung her eyes. They must have been worsted, either utterly destroyed or driven far away to the north! But still the big orc, the one called Barzkhûral, had been concerned that if he and his band did not hurry back to the Black Army that the Riders would come and catch them unawares.

Hope surged in Elfhild's heart. Maybe the Riders would indeed return in greater strength and deliver the captives from their enemies. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined valiant warriors galloping on their great war steeds, screaming mighty battle cries and charging at the orcs. The raiders would be driven away in fear, and the captives could then flee into the mountains or to Dunharrow or maybe even further west and there wait out the war. What would happen then? She prayed that the West would prove the victor and that her father, brother and uncles would return safely and, of course, dear Osric and all the other fellows of Grenefeld. Then, perhaps, life would resume some semblance of what it had been before, though she knew nothing would ever really be the same again. But maybe-

"Hai! Hai! Gus thak! Maubûr frapog!" an orc bellowed and the orcs began to march once again, prodding their captives along. There must have been over two hundred of the monsters, all wearing thick armor of metal rings or fishes' scales and carrying sharp spears. Elfhild plunged from lofty hopes and giddy fantasies back into deep despair. She had been daydreaming again and ignoring the truthfulness of her plight. All was lost and the end of the free world had come. She felt a stabbing, searing pain in her heart, and she could not stifle a sob as the tears flowed freely down her face once again.

But though her mother had been slain, she still had her sister, aunt and cousin, and she felt closer to them now than she ever had before, though few words had been said and no embraces had been shared. She wondered how fared poor Elffled, for the orcs had not allowed them to talk. Now she would have to shout to make her voice be heard over the sound of foul orc-speech, raucous laughter and snatches of bawdy songs which were sung off-key, and she did not really want these brutes to be party to her conversation. At least the draught that their captors had given her sister seemed to have helped, but Elfhild highly doubted that the healing powers of these creatures had any lasting effect. Maybe when the orcs allowed them to rest, she would be able to ask her sister how she felt.

They marched on and on at a slow yet constant pace with frequent stops to rest, for the raiders had to humor the young and the old. The weeping of the captives blended with the songs and laughter of the orcs, creating a discordant melody of sorrow and strife, malice and mourning: the song of a world marred in its making. After they had traveled about two miles, Elffled fell in a heap upon the dusty road. Sobbing and wailing, she refused to get back up and her weeping was inconsolable. Elfhild feared that she was dying or had gone mad in her grief, but her desperate cries were drowned out by the cruel laughter of their captors. An orc had to throw Elffled over his shoulder and carry her for a good distance, but though her weary legs were saved from walking, the blood rushed to her head and made it throb and spin. To make matters worse, the brute who was carrying her kept pinching her rump or slapping it to the lively tune of ribald songs, much to the two maidens' dismay and the amusement of the rest of the orcs.

Onward they marched on the Great West Road. As they traveled eastward, they were met by more orcs and more captives and great was the spoil, for the lands west of the Mering Stream were poorly guarded. 'Twas true that the eastern border along the Entwash and Mering Stream from the Falls of the Rauros to the White Mountains was easy to defend, for the only path between swamp-lands to the north and forests and mountains to the south was where the Road went through Everholt over the Mering Stream. However, war waged in the northern marches. Here was the strength of the home guard, for forces from Dol Guldur beleaguered the Wold and East Emnet. Yet another army of the Dark Land traveled upon the Road, and the first feelers of that mighty force had struck the lands of the Horse-lords while the Riders were striving with the enemy in the South or fighting in the northern marches.

The rest of the night dragged by in dreary misery and the hours seemed to last for long ages of the earth. The silent forest of Everholt to the right loomed above them with ominous foreboding, and even the vile voices of the orcs were stilled. The Firien Wood this place was also called; the Whispering Wood in the Common Speech, for a great silence lay under those dense branches and few could withstand it. The raiders and their captives passed row after row of oaks and birches with long, sparsely covered branches reaching out to the heavens like the bony hands of starving men begging for release from their hunger. The air was heavy with a sense of baleful condemnation, as though the stern, dour shade of Elendil had returned to stand above his old mound upon the hill of Halfirien and look down upon the enemy with reproach and rebuke. Yet in truth his shade was to be counted impotent and utterly defeated for the realm of his descendants had perished, and soon, it seemed, would also fall their old ally.

Dawn came and the sun rose but she was merely a faint pale glow in the shadowy sky, like the icy radiance of the moon covered by veils of billowy clouds. A few hours after the dim dawn, the orcs called another halt to the march and left the Road, retreating once again into the uncomfortable sanctuary of the hallowed forest. After a short distance, they allowed their captives to take a short rest in the deep shade that lay beneath the trees. All was dark in the camp and not even the flickering glow of a single campfire pierced the shadows cast by the thick web of branches overhead and the unnatural twilight caused by the suffocating clouds. Orcs were everywhere, some sitting down to rest, others standing around in clustered groups or milling about. Vigilant guards patrolled the perimeter of the camp and others were posted along the road and to the west. The captives had not one bit of privacy, and the women and children were even guarded when they had to answer a call of nature. So it would be for the rest of the journey.

Beneath a large oak, Elfhild and Elffled sat down and stretched out their tired legs upon the dry, sandy ground. They were a short distance away from the rest of the prisoners, but still within the hearing range of a loud whisper. Leofgifu sat down near her husband's twin sister-daughters, and they took what ease they could with hands tied behind their backs. Hunig sat down beside her mother, seeking comfort and protection at her side, her small arms clutching at her mother's form. The orcs gave little heed to them, for they were weary from the march and the frightened speech of captives had become tedious to their ears, and so for a time the prisoners had a moment of solace amid the trees of the still forest.

"How are you two faring?" whispered Leofgifu, the lamentation of the other captives muffling the quiet noise of her voice. "Especially you, Elffled." She looked with concern at the bandage wrapped around her niece's head.

"Yes, Elffled - how is your head?" Elfhild asked, squeezing her sister's arm. "You have been very quiet this whole night. You were bleeding when the journey began, but in this darkness I cannot see how badly you were hurt."

"I do not think the blow was that evil." Elffled smiled weakly. "My head still feels a little queer: like I am besotted upon too much mead and have the sickness that comes afterwards at the same time."

Leofgifu's brow wrinkled with worry. "But that is what you said earlier, Elffled. Mayhap you should lie back and rest a while." Hunig looked over to her cousins with unspoken anxiety.

"I will be fine," Elffled assured the others. "The orcs treated the wound and it will heal soon enough." Though her words were meant to ease the fears of her kin, in truth she worried about the blow which she had been dealt. Never before had her head hurt so badly, nor had her senses been so bewildered, even when she had taken one too many sips from the drinking horn.

"How were you wounded anyway?" Leofgifu softly inquired. They had been given little time to talk, even during rests. The orcs seemed at last to have lost interest in the conversation of their prisoners, and for that the captives were glad.

"Well, um," Elffled began but trailed off, blushing sheepishly. "I must have been hit pretty hard on the head, because I cannot remember. Elfhild, could you help me?" She turned pleading eyes to her sister.

Elfhild wondered how she, who fancied herself a bit of a storyteller, would fare in the telling of the tragic tale, but still she took a deep breath and began. "When the orcs raided our home, they wanted to take us captive, but Mother would not let those fiends capture us without a struggle. Even Brúwann joined the fray, but alas! he was felled by one of the brutes. Mother slew two of the fiends and you and I fought our best. Oh, I hope we wounded some of the monsters!"

Her voice cracked and wavered as her face contorted from the travails of newborn tears and her heart was wrenched by sorrow. "It all happened so quickly," Elfhild continued between sobs. "Mother was thrown against the wall by one of those accursed demons and he stabbed her in the stomach. She fell to the floor and Elffled rushed to her side. Gloating at what he had done, that foul devil hit my sister atop the head with the heavy hilt of his sword. She was knocked senseless and slumped over Mother, and I feared that she, too, had been killed."

"So that was how it happened," Elffled remarked dully. She sat there, her limbs feeling as leaden as a heavy log. She had the wits, too, of a piece of wood or a rock: impassive, indifferent and uncaring. This lack of concern terrified her and she twisted her hands painfully against her bonds, both to punish herself and so she could feel something besides numbness. She wondered if her mother had felt so confused and heartless when her own mother had died, though she had died in childbirth and not at the hands of her enemies.

Elfhild's weeping gradually subsided and her eyes felt sandy and tired. Yet she herself was not weary, for a hot anger began to boil up inside her heart and her sorrow was slowly replaced by fury. Her eyes glittered and there was a touch of lingering madness and bloodlust in her voice. "No weregild in gold would an orc ever pay for a daughter of Eorl, but payment can be extracted by other means. I leapt at that devil's spawn and wrestled him to the ground. The blade of my sax drank of his blood many times ere his fellows laid hands upon me and dragged me out of the house. Sweet and bitter was the taste of blood and the iron drank deeply of it, savoring every drop. Alas that my blade could not have imbibed until it was drunken and utterly besotted with the wine of death!"

"You two and your mother were very brave and fought just as fiercely as any Rider of the Mark. War is indeed a most horrible thing," Leofgifu shook her head sadly, the behavior of the normally cheerful Elfhild alarming her. Cruel indeed was fate, for it had forced a sweet girl to become a killer. Oh, curse these orcs! Curse the Dark Enemy!

Elfhild trembled. No remorse or sorrow did she feel for having slain the orc and neither pity nor mercy tempered her rage. She had heard tales of young Riders who had been so overcome by confusion and guilt after their first battle that they lost the heart to fight for a time. Many thought fellows such as these were weak, for the folk of the Mark loved a fearless warrior who knew many tales of battle. But no delight did Elfhild take in slaying and her heart felt no joy.

"Mother never wanted to be a shieldmaiden," Elfhild sobbed. "She never wanted to fight against the enemy. Neither did I. But the war came to us, and we fought it as best as we could. Oh, what does it matter anyway? The end has come. There is nothing left but death, and for that I am glad! Death would bring freedom from this crushing sorrow, this cruel torment, this accursed darkness. O, would that I had fallen beside my mother!" Her voice trailed off into anguished wails and her body shook with her sobbing as though she had been seized by a demon of sorrow.

An uneasy silence descended upon the four. The night was still and quiet, save for the murmuring of the captives and the harsh voices of the orcs. Hunig squeezed her mother tightly and buried her face into the crook of her bound arm. Elfhild sank to the ground and lay there, her shoulder throbbing from her weight and from the small pebbles and clods of dirt which dug into her flesh. The air was chill and the dampness of the captives' sweat-drenched hair and clothing made them shiver and tremble, for they sat in the shade and there was little light to warm their weary bones. The silence in the forest seemed to hum and reverberate off the boles of the trees, creating a somber feeling of foreboding which originated from someplace deep within the forest and spread outward, like the ripples in a pond. The sorrowful sounds of weeping and wailing slowly dulled to a soft noise of lamentation, a whisper in the silent woods where few dared to tread.

Elffled looked up. Though her head felt like a devil was drumming on it, she was able to perceive that something had upset the orcs and there was a great stir in the camp. "Rûkal! Rûkal!" several orcs cried, turning and pointing back towards the west. "Skaatug taalan-ghaara, gus maubûr ash!" The orc-chieftains who held the highest ranks in the lot were alarmed, and many of the orcs who had been sitting down and taking their ease rose to their feet and listened intently. The camp quickly became a swarm of about two hundred orcs whose foul voices buzzed angrily like the flies of the Dark Land.

Orders were barked and weapons were hastily picked up from where they had been propped against tree trunks or cast carelessly upon the ground. A tall orc with a broad chest and heavy armor stormed into the midst of the captives and bellowed out the order: "All right, you strawhead sows and your squealing little runts, on your feet NOW! Your accursed horse-boys have returned and we've got to leg it ere they catch us. Don't try to scream or struggle, for though our orders say no spoiling, they also say we are to slay all captives rather than allow them to be rescued by our enemies."

Elfhild's heart skipped a beat. A chance of rescue! Her thoughts became wild and her hopes unruly. In her mind she saw the faintly luminescent clouds of dust stirred up by the pounding hooves of the horses as the Riders charged the orcs, their swords swinging as they slew, singing the songs of war. She would shout and cry and tears of joy would flow down her face and though her hands were bound, she would find herself dancing in the madness of the moment. But then her vision was tainted by darkness and doubt, and she saw herself falling to the ground, pierced through the heart by the spear of an orc. How cruel was fate! That the only hope of the captives could also end in their deaths. Spirits had soared like eagles but quickly plummeted back down to the earth as though shot by arrows.

After they had passed the forest, the orcs and their prisoners were marching once again upon the Road through the dusky haze of blighted morning. Impatient, cursing orcs pulled upon the lead ropes of unwilling animals and as iron boots beat upon the dusty road, stolen loot tumbled from heavily laden arms. There tools, cooking utensils and articles of clothing lay forgotten upon the ground, for there was little time to be spent retrieving what had fallen. Cross from weariness and lack of sleep, young children began to cry and sob anew, either frightened or resentful of their captors. Babies wailed from the sudden and abrupt movements and mothers desperately tried to give what comfort they could.

The orcs were not as lenient as they had been when the eastward journey began, and the captives were ordered to march ever faster, encouraged onward by the sharp pricks of spears and the bitter stings of the lash. Fear and desperation filled their hearts, for they were constrained to flee from their own people and the only hope of rescue. Yet if they slowed their pace, they were punished for their lack of haste, and they knew that they would surely be slain if the Riders were to catch up with them. The morning air was filled with the sounds of anguish and suffering as each step the captives were forced to take took them further and further away from the place of their birth and into an uncertain future.

* * *

"Hai! Hai! Gus thak! Maubûr frapog!" - "About face! Company march!"  
"Rûkal! Rûkal! Skaatug taalan-ghaara, gus maubûr ash." - "Riders Riders! Coming from the north, about one company."


	8. A Crimson Stain in the Hallowed Wood

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

A horse galloped through the murky shade of the morning, its sides and neck lathered and its breathing hard. The man, teeth gritted tightly against the pain in his shoulder, swayed slightly as he leaned forward in his saddle, urging his horse to greater speed. Up ahead he could see a faint glow through the shadows; a campfire dying into embers. A scout, descrying the Rider's green surcoat from afar, waved him forward when he approached and soon the Rider drew his heaving horse to a halt.

"Ho, Ricbert! You are wounded!"

"Aye," Ricbert's voice grated out, "but that may wait for now. I have urgent news and must speak with the captain."

Two men rushed over and helped him dismount from his horse and assisted him over to the campfire where Captain Swidhelm stood talking with some others of his éored. "Sir," Ricbert said, swaying on his feet, the blood blossoming a crimson flower on the green of his surcoat, "we were worsted when they came across the stream. We lost a number of men and the rest of us were driven away, but those who were not slain are fast behind me." He tried to turn his shoulder back the way he had come, but the motion made him dizzy and he fell slightly against one of his comrades beside him.

Captain Swidhelm, alarmed at the news, spoke rapidly, "What other tidings, lad?"

"I know no more," said Ricbert as his knees gave under his weight and he began to sag towardsthe ground before his fellows caught him.

"Tend to him," the Captain's deep voice said. "Poor lad!"

"Mount up, Eorlingas!" Swidhelm's voice rang in the gloom. Swords, spears and shields were retrieved from their resting places, bridles were buckled about the heads of horses, and blankets and saddles were slung over the backs of the steeds. Leather creaked as the men swung into their saddles, their horses tense beneath them. Scarcely were reins needed to guide the horses, for they were as eager as the men to be off and away on the chase.

They had ridden only a few miles when another scout hailed them and the Riders slowed their mounts to a walk and then halted. "What news, Brandwine?" Captain Swidhelm asked.

"Bad news, sir," the scout, a tall, slender Eorling with long braids of flaxen hair escaping from his helm, said nervously, his throat gulping and constricting. "The village of Grenefeld and others were torched last night and little is left of them save ruins. Scarcely a living thing is to be found except here and there a pig or a chicken, some maidens whose feet are swift and an elderly man who hid himself in a well, thus avoiding the invaders. We heard his calls and when we looked down into the well, we saw him there below, dangling, holding onto the rope, his feet standing on the bucket. 'Twas fortunate indeed for him that he had had the sense to shorten the well rope ere he made his descent, or he would have met his death in the water."

Looks of disbelief and terror crossed the faces of the men gathered around the captain; many had kin and family in that area. The captain's face showed grim in the pale light of the morning. "Curse these blighting clouds!" he said angrily. "They must have gone back the way they came with their spoils and even now head for the rest of their foul army! Let us ride forth and find them! They will leave a path easy to follow. There is little time to spare! Forth Eorlingas!"

All his men waited for was his command, for their minds were already riding swift galloping horses on the trail to avenge the slain. Grim resolve filled their eyes and turned them as steely as their blades. At the command from the captain, the éored touched their heels to the horses' sides and roared away.

Somewhere far ahead of the Riders the orc companies hurried on eastward. "Hiisaz! Hiisaz!" screamed the orc captain, trying to make his voice heard above the wails of the frightened women and children. "Swing their screaming imps on your shoulders, lads, if it comes down to that!"

"I'd rather sink my teeth into one of their fat little legs!" hissed an orc to his fellow as he swung a sobbing small girl to his shoulders.

"Ho la! She'd be tasty, fat mixed with blood and flesh!"

"Stop your jabbering and move your lazy arses!" the orc captain screamed as he lunged, threatening the closest orc with his sword.

The captives, surrounded on all sides by orcs, were prodded into a shambling run. "Run, you strawhead wenches!" roared a guard running behind Elfhild and Elffled, lending speed to their flight with swift, full lashes to the exposed parts of their legs. Though the maidens' tall leather cross-gartered shoes dulled the blow, still they gasped at the painful impact. They forced their weary legs to go faster, their hearts pounding wildly in their chests. Terrified children screamed from the shoulders of the orcs who held them as they looked down the backs of the running brutes and saw the ground rush by at a blurred pace.

To the rear of the running mass of orcs and Rohirrim came the orcs who were charged with herding the animals. The panicked bawling of the cattle added to the pandemonium and the orcs struggled to keep control of the beasts. A brindle-colored cow, her eyes wild in fear, broke away from her captor's grasp and plowed a path through the orcs around her, the force of the impact sending one orc screaming to the ground under her hooves. The cow bawled in her panic and ran, milk sack swinging to and fro, back the way that they had come as the orcs turned and threw spears at her. Missing their mark, they shook their fists in the air and cursed their rapidly escaping prey.

"Damn you all! Can't you run any faster, you maggots?" the snarling hiss of the orc captain cut through the ears of the lumbering, panting orcs and their captives alike. "Speed them up! The horse-boys will be upon us," his angry voice thundered.

Elfhild's thoughts were frantic as she struggled to breathe, to give speed to legs which longed to collapse beneath her. The looming forms of the trees to the right flew by like blurred phantoms in a dark dream. The captives were flying from their only salvation, from their own people who had come to their rescue. Hope had become fear and dread, for the orcs would kill the women and children if the murdering fiends thought they were in danger of losing their precious booty to the Riders.

A woman carrying a small babe stumbled to her knees, a gasp tearing from her throat as she almost dropped the infant in her fall. One of her tormentors stopped and screamed at her. "Get on your feet, you wretched whore, or I'll tear the head off your reeking little pup!" The woman screamed and struggled to her feet and ran, clutching her child to her bosom as the orc paced his speed to hers.

Other captives collapsed from weariness but the orcs either intimidated them into rising again or dragged them to their feet and prodded them forward at the point of spear or sword. Elffled and several other captives had to be thrown over shoulders and carried by angry, cursing orcs. The feet of the invading force drummed a staccato on the parched ground, the yellow grasses crushed into the earth. "Faster, you scum, or I'll have your damned heads cut off and throw them to welcome your horse-boys when they ride in sight!" the captain screamed at the prisoners.

Sweat streaming from their faces, the orcs held the merciless pace, ever forcing their terrified captives to greater speeds before them. Escape became a beating, driving force, and like machines, their legs pumped up and down as their iron-shod feet bore down upon the earth. Uneasy, some hazarded a backwards glance, and they smelled the reek and fear of their fellows beside them.

Like a gathering summer thunderstorm, the Rohirrim raced across the scorched earth. "They cannot be much further ahead!" the captain cried. Anger flashed in his eyes like lightning as his horse conquered the miles between them and the orcs. Like the thunder of Nahar, the hooves of the great horses shook the ground.

And so on the éored rode, their horses' hooves getting nearer as the powerful muscles of the steeds stretched out at a full run, their manes and tails streaming backward in their rush. The powerful animals plowed on into the dim morning, their hooves throwing up trails of dust behind them.

The orcs lumbered on, some slowed by the weight of women and children slung over their backs, others driving their captives onward. Grunting and cursing, their captain urged them to move faster, always faster. Then their keen noses caught a new scent upon the air driven by the light western breeze - horses! Then came the trembling of the ground beneath their pounding feet and they knew that their pursuers were drawing nigh.

Slowing his gait, the captain ordered a halt and soon his lads stood near him, breathing hard, their sweat and reek penetrating the air with a foul pungency. Their eyes darted about, expecting at any moment to find the strawheads at their backs. "You," the captain pointed to one of the smaller orcs, "go ahead at the double quick! Give word that we are coming and to send us aid if they want to keep their precious booty alive!"

With a hasty word of affirmation and a salute, the orc left the party, grateful that he was not staying behind. Long arms moving at his sides, he loped off to tell the advancing elements of the army that help was needed. "Garn!" he exclaimed under his breath. "I'll be damned if I want to stay behind and be sauce for those bastards!"

To a sergeant the captain growled, "I put you in charge of the prisoners. Take three troops and move the chattel on ahead. The rest of us will stay behind and give those filthy horses' arses a surprise! Turn and face them, you louts! Let them taste our swords! We can see them far better than they can see us!"

The horses snorted and the captain ordered the Riders to slow to a trot and then to a walk. The horses stood there, coats lathered and foam dripping from their mouths, nostrils twitching, ears alert and listening for sounds. The men muttered to themselves. "Silence!" the captain ordered. "Our horses can sense them and smell their foul stench. They are nearby!"

There was silence, save for the soft breathing of the men and the heaving chests of the horses, and all listened, waiting. A horse pawed with his foreleg, impatient to move forward for his battle excitement was up, hating the smell of the enemy and the restraining force of the bit in his mouth.

"Advance at a walk," the captain ordered, his voice almost a whisper. The faint jangling of bridles and bits in the horses' mouths and the sound of their hooves as they met the earth were the only noises breaking the stillness of the morning. The éored advanced forward. Up ahead of them, they could see a darker mass against the gloom - the orcs!

Before the captain could give the order to charge, a hale of arrows rent the sky. Struck by suddenness of the missiles, there was little time to hoist shields over heads to thwart the bitter rain. Horses and men screamed. The captain, the words, "Forth Eorlingas!" caught in his throat, was hit by an arrow in the left cheek, the tip plunging downward into his mouth and out through his neck. Blood spewed as he slid from his saddle. The horse screamed in agony as an arrow drove through his haunches. Another man slumped dead in his saddle, struck down by an arrow through the heart, and others gritted their teeth as they felt the barbs strike home.

The second-in-command, a Rider by the name of Garmund, screamed the order, "Forth Eorlingas!" and men leaned low over their pommels, their spear points extended forward.

"Free their kine! Drive them into the path of the strawheads!" the captain screamed out the order. Hauling on the lead ropes of the cattle, the orcs turned them to face the approaching Rohirrim. "Ukh! Ukh!" the orcs chanted as they prodded the rumps of the terrified beasts with their spears, urging them forward. Their eyeballs rolling, showing the whites, the cattle bellowed out their terror and plunged away, eager to be gone from the foul smell of their drovers.

The orcs held behind a wall of shields and pikes at the ready. The cruel halberds waited like the wicked, curving fangs of hungry beasts. "Forward! Forward!" came the cry as the powerful muscles of the horses gathered. Their galloping strides shortened the distance between the mass of orcs and the Eorlingas. The panic-stricken cattle came charging towards them, a great horned mass gathering momentum. Yet skillful hands on the reins guided the horses aside and between the cattle, thus avoiding treacherous collisions, and the kine ran harmlessly through the charging mounts.

The orcs stood their ground until the Riders were almost upon them and then the line swiftly divided and let the Riders charge through. Then quickly turning, they hurled their spears into the backs of the Riders. Two men topped from their horses and lay upon the ground groaning, bloody foam at their mouths, as their fingernails tore up clumps of grass in their agonized struggles.

Behind the Riders the first line of orcs drove on, slaying the wounded where they found them, severing their heads with swift strokes. Garmund stood in his stirrups and urged his men onward. "We have broken the second line! Onward! Onward to the women and children!" he cried and his great gray horse lengthened his strides and plunged ahead.

Before the Riders, barely seen, was another line of orcs, and these did not part. Then the Riders plunged into the line, ramming their spears through the orcs' mail and into their bodies. Horses reared into the air and the animals neighed wildly as both Rider and horse were downed by the biting points of the enemies' spears. Other brutes wielded the cruel hooked halberds and dragged Riders down, hewing their bodies as they fell. Over thrashing, twisting bodies of orcs, the Riders rode past the line. Then wheeling around, they turned to face their enemies, swords drawn and ready.

By this time, the first line of orcs had caught up with the second. When they saw the Riders' blood-stained swords held high in the air, their faces masked in fury as they came at them screaming songs of death, all courage went out of the orcs and they turned and fled. The Riders pounded after them, slashing heads and limbs from bodies, black blood spewing as sword connected with flesh. Caught in a battle blood lust, the Riders showed no mercy, glorying in the carnage they wreaked on the eaves of the hallowed woods.

Far ahead of them, the guards surrounding the women and children were frantic. "Go on! Run fast, horse dung!" they cried as their flails lashed across the legs of the women and children. One child, a small boy, being carried across the shoulders of an orc, fell plunging to the ground as his keeper stumbled. Rising to his feet, the orc smashed a foot down in the boy's face, breaking teeth and smearing blood across the boy's mouth and chin. "If I hadn't had to carry you, you stinking little worm, I'd be far ahead by now!" he growled as he kicked the boy in the stomach and then ran on.

"Faster Eorlingas!" yelled the commander of the Rohirrim. "We are gaining on them!" and a surge of exhalation, excitement and joy coursed through the hearts and minds of the Riders. "Onward! Onward! For the women! For the children!" they screamed as their horses raced after the retreating orcs and their prisoners.

Up ahead, Brandwine could hear a snarling noise like a wolf growl, dark, low and menacing, and the young Rider felt chills prickle the hairs along the back of his neck. "Wolves!" the men cried. "Wolves!" And then they saw them, black shadows raging out of the dark illusions of the murk.

Spears all used, the men held their swords tightly, shields at the ready. Yet shields and swords would not always protect from great bounding strides and cruel, wicked teeth seeking to taste blood and death. The gleaming yellow eyes of the gray and white wolves and the matching yellow eyes of their riders soon were upon them. Bounding leaps brought several horses down. Teeth caught tender flesh in screaming, searing pain, and swift swords tore at necks and throats. "There are not many of them!" encouraged Brandwine just before a wolf drove into the side of his horse, fangs rending flesh before its fierce teeth. The horse was knocked over and the animal kicked and struggled on its side, neighing wildly.

The beast, growling, bounded over the fallen horse, then turned and came at the Rider, yellow fangs dripping with saliva. Momentarily stunned, Brandwine shook his head and rose to his feet, shield and sword welcoming both orc and wolf. As the beast lunged, the Rider darted to his side, swinging at the wolf's neck as he plowed by him. An angry yelp rewarded his efforts.

Undaunted, the orc turned his mount and urged his beast into another leap. Brandwine laughed as he easily sidestepped the snarling creature. Enraged, the orc reined his animal to the right and then drove back at the man with spear extended. The Rider waited for the orc and as he neared, the Rider's sword plunged into the breast of the beast as he grabbed the orc's spear with his shield arm and dragged him from the saddle.

The wolf howled in pain and thrashed upon the ground, blood streaming from its chest. The orc cursed the Rider and lunged at him with a wicked jagged blade. The blade met Brandwine's shield as he parried, and then the Rider's bloodied sword arced over and slashed at the orc's neck, but the orc moved aside with a snarl.

"Think you're smart, don't you?" the orc hissed. "But not so smart as that!" he said as his blade flashed again and slashed out at the Rider's neck, kicking at the Rider's shins with his boots.

"Smarter than you, you bastard!" Brandwine groaned from the kick as he held up his shield and deflected the other's blow. He slashed down with his sword and sliced through the orc's leather vambrace, hewing off his arm. "You are slow on your feet, and clumsy too!" As the orc reeled aside in agony, the Rider drew his arm back and plunged his sword through the orc's throat as blood erupted, smearing his surcoat with black gore.

All around the tall, thin young man, savage cries and fierce growls cut through the air as red and black blood flowed upon the ground. Soon the ferocity of the wolf attack dissipated. The wolf riders turned their hideous beasts back and urged them back towards the advancing elements of the Mordor army. But the valor of the Riders of Rohan had been for naught. The attack had been only a ruse to slow the Riders down and even now the main body of orcs and captives were far ahead of them, running towards the welcoming arms of the black horde. The trap had been sprung with the golden-haired ones the victims.

Elfhild cast a last look back as she scrambled up the eastern shore of the Mering Stream. The bridge had been destroyed months before when the tidings had come that the White City had fallen, but the drought over the spring had made the water low and the stream easily fordable. Then, feeling the cruel blow of a whip across her legs, she turned her head and continued running. The tall trees of Firien stood on either side of the road now, silence and sorrow mingling with the shade beneath their lofty boughs; the forest now more a place of anguish and torment rather than a hallowed one invoking deep reverence and awe.

Around the Riders lay the wreckage of the skirmish, and they heard the piteous moaning of the wounded and the death agonies of the dying. Horses ran riderless, lost in confusion, until soft, gentle voices steadied them and called them back. Compassionate hands helped wounded comrades into saddles now empty, while others tied the bodies of the slain to the backs of riderless horses.

Brandwine's horse had whimpered and shuddered one last time before it had died, and Brandwine stood horseless in the midst of the dead. Then he espied another Rider approaching him, leading a horse behind. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Brandwine assured him, "but my horse was slain."

"Take Frealaf's mount," the man said. "He will not be needing him anymore."

"I thank you," Brandwine replied as he put his left foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the bloodied saddle.

Their dismal task completed, the Riders mounted their own steeds and began the solemn, mournful ride back. Many of their heads were down and and dark shadows of defeat were written across the faces of all.

A small lump lay moaning just ahead. "What is it!" a Rider cried.

"A small boy, by the looks of him," Brandwine replied and dismounted his horse.

"No!" came a garbled voice. "Keep your hands off me!"

"Lad, we are friends," Brandwine said in Rohirric.

"Take me to Mother!" the boy mumbled through his tears.

"You are hurt!" Brandwine gasped as he bent down and then picked up the boy.

Sobs met his words. "Help me."

"We are going home." Brandwine's words were kind and gentle. Holding the lad close to his chest, he swung back into the saddle as the red blood mingled with the black on his surcoat.

Somewhere far above them in the gloomy morning, they heard a shrieking wail, loud and shrill, laughing at them, mocking them - a scout coming from the East, a herald of the war to come.

"By Béma!" hissed Brandwine as he looked to the sky.

"What is it?" another gasped.

"A spectre of death!" exclaimed Brandwine, his face ashen. The lad clutched at his neck and wailed.

With another mocking shriek, the Fell Rider wheeled his flying beast and rode laughing away into the shadows of the morning.

* * *

"Hiisaz! Hiisaz!" - "Faster! Faster!"  
"Ukh! Ukh!" - "Go! Go!"

The ordering of Mordor's armies is always taken from the Land of Shadows Black Speech orc army ranks. This ranking system will be used throughout the course of this story.

Rank...Equivalent...Command...Number of Men  
Pizurk...Private...-...-  
Pizgal...Corporal...Troop...10  
Pizbûr...Sergeant...Company...100  
Pizdur...Captain...Regiment...500  
Mautor...Lieutenant...Army...1000  
Maugoth...General...2+ Armies...2000+


	9. The Conquering Army

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The orcs pushed the captives ever eastward on the Great West Road through the Firien Wood. The revered forest was on all sides of them and the trees seemed to press in upon the raiders with a solemn, disapproving stare. A dark brooding force stood quiet as the voice of the orc sergeant now in command of the prisoners seemed to scream. "All right, you maggots, you can slow your pace now," he commanded. "I don't believe we'll have any company. Don't get slothful, though; we need to keep these snagalobs and their imps moving."

"Garn!" one of the lads whispered. "You'd think these wenches were some great treasure. The Higher Ups have used us sore enough just so they can get their tumble in the bed with them."

"Silence!" the sergeant ordered. "You mangy dogs didn't have permission to speak! What d'you think this is? Some brothel behind the lines?" He guffawed. "None of us has ever slept in a bed in our lives! Now that's a pleasure that we're denied. They leave the dirty work for us while those fancy commanders get all the credit."

The women and children, most too tired or numb even to attempt speaking, plodded along at the reduced pace like worn out nags. Only the babes carried in their mothers' arms still managed to wail. None dared ask the sergeant for time to rest. Up ahead on the road between the trees, they heard the sound of marching feet. "Off the road!" the sergeant bellowed. "Clear the way for the army!"

The orcs brandished sword and spear to lend speed to the women and children to move to the left and off the road. "Keep moving!" he shouted. "I never said you could stop!" Soon a company of cavalry rode by them and then came the color bearers, tawny-faced men in sable livery carrying tall black standards, some bearing the image of the Great Eye and others a pale crescent moon. Behind the cavalry rode a small party of horsemen, the regimental commander and his staff trotting in front leading them. The men had dark and swarthy faces and wore the same black armor as the color bearers. Behind them marched a long column of five hundred orcs, hideous, distorted creatures matching their step to the monotonous, maddening rhythm of the drummers among their lot.

Endlessly the hordes moved past them on their way to conquer the rest of Rohan, the drums a steady pounding like well-oiled gears in the machine of war. From time to time, a great shout and cheer would be raised, and then the orcs chanted their battle cry, "Matum, matum, grish, ghaash, ghaash!" After the first creeping feelers of the army had passed, the women and children were forced to walk another mile before the sergeant finally called, "Halt! Secure the captives and make camp for the rest of the day. We will march again ere dawn. Men, fall out for labor and guard duty."

The prisoners were ordered to sit on the ground while the orcs made camp. The noon sun shone overhead, but the light was dim and filtered by cloud and branch. Soon a number of fires were blazing away, the smoke savory and inviting. "All right, lads, untie their hands and let a few of them walk around a while under guard." The sergeant put his pack down by a tree and after opening it, he took a flask of orc draught, some dry bread and stringy dried meat and began eating while his men carried out his orders.

An orc lumbered over to Elfhild and she instinctively cringed away, her feet pushing her backwards over the rough ground. Laughing with evil glee at the maiden's fear, the orc lunged down and pushed her forward with a heavy clawed hand upon her back. Her weariness momentarily forgotten, Elfhild whimpered and trembled, but soon she felt the ropes which bound her hands being loosened and then removed altogether.

Wincing as she moved arms which felt like they had turned to stone, Elfhild gingerly touched her aching wrists with stiff fingers. The orc moved over to her sister and then her aunt, freeing them in like fashion, and then went around to all the other captives, untying their bonds. Elfhild watched him with fearful, furtive eyes, her mind plunged into a strange state of bewilderment. She thought that the orcs would never allow their captives to rest and would force them to run until their hearts stopped and they fell to the ground in the swoon of death.

Soon the prisoners were given water, and parched throats were brought much-needed relief. Bread was also passed out and then the captives were left to their own woes. Few desired to rise from the scant grass which grew beneath the trees, for they were weary and their legs and feet ached from the harsh journey. As she sat upon the sandy floor of the clearing, Elfhild greedily devoured her bread like a starving wolf, and Leofgifu and Hunig ate with the same famished vigor.

For a long time Elffled looked down at the chunk of bread which sat upon her own lap, stray crumbs dotting her dirt-covered dress. She remembered the bread her mother used to make. First she would grind the grain by rotating the stones of the quern until the grain became flour. Then she would mix the dough and knead it, and after letting it sit for a while, she would bake it atop a stone slab placed over the brazier. Elffled's eyes welled up with tears. Never again would she taste her mother's cooking, and the memory of what she last had eaten was a foul one. The taste of bitter vomit and pottage mingled with the hot draught of the orcs had lingered in her throat for hours. She knocked the bread out of her lap and hunched over, sobbing.

Elfhild whispered her sister's name and she embraced her tightly from the side, one arm sliding behind her back and the other arm stretching out in front of her. She tenderly kissing the dirty, sweaty hair which hung over her sister's temple. Elfhild, too, was crying; she could not look at her sister's tears without being moved to weep herself, for she felt the same pain, the same anguish in her heart. Her features soft with sympathy and sorrow, Leofgifu moved closer to the two maidens and gently squeezed Elffled's hand.

Three orcs came lumbering into the group of captives to the spot where Elfhild and Elffled were sitting, and Elfhild protectively tightened her embrace upon her sister's quivering form. A leering, foul-smelling rascal, bent down, his hands resting on his thighs, and surveyed Elffled while his fellows tended to the injuries of the other prisoners. He walked behind the two cringing, clutching maidens and placed a huge, hairy taloned hand upon her head. "It's time for your medicine," he said after removing the bandage and examining her scalp. Taking a box from out of his pack, he opened it and after bending down again, ran a clawed finger into the pungent-smelling ointment and rubbed a dab on it on the back of her head. Elffled winced and whimpered. "I think you'll live," he snarled and applied a fresh dressing to her wound. "Here," he rumbled, thrusting a flask into her hands, "drink this with no fuss or I'll pour it down your gullet!"

Trembling at her sister's side, Elffled tore her frightened gaze from the orc's hideous face, and Elfhild was forced to relinquish her desperate grasp. With shaking fingers, Elffled lifted the flask to her lips, and poured the foul liquid into her mouth. She swallowed quickly, the orc draught burning her tongue and the insides of her cheeks, clearing the stuffiness in her nose and making her eyes water.

"Garn! Too hot for your tongue!" the orc jeered as he took the flask from her hand. Elfhild renewed her grasp upon her sister, her fingers digging tightly into the maiden's arm. The minds of both were filled with fear, and they were terrified by the thoughts of being torn from each other to be raped, tormented and killed. But after muttering something hateful, the orc left them in peace and lumbered away.

Once again, Elffled began to weep and she struggled against her sister's embrace. Elfhild slowly recoiled and took the sobbing maid's clammy hand in her own, stroking the top of it gently with her fingers. "I am so weary and frightened," Elffled whimpered, sniffling. "But at least the orc-salve and that foul-tasting draught helped to lessen the pain in my head somewhat."

"Those are the best tidings I have heard all day," Leofgifu said softly and Elfhild smiled. Hunig smiled too and wiped her eyes with a dirty hand, for she had been crying with her cousins. "Lie down and take your rest. If you do not feel like eating, hide the bread in your cloak. It shall keep you in good stead if the murdering fiends do not feel so generous next time in doling out food." The last thing on Elffled's mind was eating, but she understood the sad wisdom in her aunt's words. After picking up the chunk of bread, she carefully concealed it within one of the pockets stitched inside her brown cloak.

Soon Elffled lay upon her side, her arm beneath her head forming a hard pillow. Hunig, too, sought sleep, for the arduous journey had greatly tired the little maid. Once the captives would have been working in the fields or tending to their gardens in these early hours of the afternoon, but now they were too weary to do aught but rest. The woods became still once more as sorrowful women and frightened children drifted off into restless, troubled slumbers, and Elfhild and her aunt sat in silence, taking what solace they could in the quiet moment.

At last Leofgifu sighed, a few loose wavy strands of her sandy hair driven upward by the puff of breath. Her dirt-smudged face careworn and lined with worry, she looked older than a woman but thirty-four years of age. "I do not know what will become of us, of you two, and Hunig and me," she said softly, closing her eyes. "I do not even know where these invaders are taking us."

"I fear we shall find out all too soon," Elfhild shivered, and the two lapsed into silence again. She felt helpless and alone, troubled by the same anxiety that filled the hearts of all the captives. Her elder kinswoman was just as frightened as she was, and there were no words of wisdom or encouragement that would bring lasting solace. Though her mother was dead, Elfhild clung to the hope that her father and brother were still alive, somewhere in the South.

More stabs of pain pierced her heart; she wondered how fared the Riders who had tried to rescue the captives. Worsted again, she thought sadly, and prayed that some had escaped the onslaught of the orcs. She shuddered as she remembered the dark shapes of the wolf-riders which sped past the captives, and trembled steadily when she recalled the shrieking wail from the sky, the terrible cry of Death heralding the end of the world.

Drums, the tramping feet of the endless columns of orcs, the chants of malice and hate mixed into a discordant sound as the army moved forward upon the Road, a vast, dark, hungering horde, a battering ram of destruction and fury that was about to be unleashed upon Rohan. All that afternoon, the terrifying cadence penetrated the air of the forest, and as the captives tried to go to sleep, their last memories were of a deafening roar of blended marching feet and cries of, "Matum, matum!"

Night fell and the fires blazed, flickering amber eyes peering out into the darkness. The prisoners had eaten their evening meal and many had lain down upon the ground, seeking to drown their sorrows in the sweet oblivion of sleep. Save for those who had guard duty, the orcs sat around the campfires, the sounds of bawdy songs and laughter defiling the silence of the hallowed forest. One of the tall orcs sat upon a log near the fire. His dark hair was greasy and matted. Teeth and chunks of bones were woven into his messy braids. An ugly, jagged scar was on one side of his face and one of his long ears had been partially bitten off. As he laughed at the obscene wit of his fellows, the fire-light glittered off his sharp, yellowed snags of teeth, glossy with a glaze of fetid spittle.

"Ha ho, my friends! That was a bloody good one, 'ay, it was, about old Kulshapatu and the Tarkûrz whore who gave him a nasty pestilence in his loins," the scarred and snag-toothed orc laughed. A smaller orc, apparently Kulshapatu, glared at him and gave a low growl, silently fuming. Another round of laughter was heard. "Good days, good days, these are," the tall orc said smiling, the teeth attached to his braids tinkling when he nodded his head. "A right proper year, if I do say so myself; filled with robbing and raping and killing, blood and war, famine and drought for our enemies and food and drink for us. Such merry times haven't been seen since the Days of Yore!" All the orcs cheered and raised up their flasks in a toast, then drank in greedy gulps.

When his fellows had quieted down, the orc continued. "A most illustrious occasion such as this needs to be remembered, so I've made up a song to commemorate the recent expedition into the land of the horse-folk." He sat back proudly, fancying himself rather smart and the bard of all bards among the Black Uruk-hai. His words were met by more cheers and several shouts of disapproval, which the orcs did on purpose to vex their comrade.

"Ai! Koz, koz!" he cried, catching the attention of his audience. "Now then. I shall continue. 'Tis a little ditty about riding the wenches of Rohan, and it's all the truth, 'ay, 'tis. Seems the horses aren't the only things in this land that make good mounts!" The host roared with laughter and eyed the frightened captives with hungry, glittering eyes. Then the bard began to sing his song.

"I do not like to brag or boast  
While gathered with this lusty host  
But once I rode a strawhead maid  
Skilled both with shield and blade.  
She struggled and she fought  
But her protests were for naught  
For I grabbed her golden hair  
And with me claws I stripped her bare.  
Then I pushed her down in the hay  
Atop that buxom wench I lay  
Listening to her tearful cries  
As I stabbed betwixt her thighs.  
I rode that wench like a steed  
And then filled her with my seed  
Though the maiden was stout  
I quickly wore her out  
And she didn't make a peep  
When I drifted off to sleep.  
Then I grabbed her by the hair  
And dragged her off to my lair  
In the darkness of my den  
She gave birth to half-breed men  
And after the end of this bloody war  
I'll breed on her some more!  
So let us each begin a line  
Upon the maids proud and fine  
Bed them, bed them one and all  
Beget a race fair and tall!  
Then may we live to see the whelps  
All full-grown and full of health  
Our Dark Master will praise us in His halls  
And tell us, 'The future lies within your balls.'"

The orcs howled with laughter, cheering and hooting and slapping their thighs. Some fell over and were rolling on the ground, grunting and growling and pounding the dirt in their uproarious mirth. The rest of the evening passed in the singing of such songs, much to the dismay and discomfiture of the captives. Though Elfhild had heard many a bawdy riddle (oft when her kinsmen did not know she was listening) the words of the orcs were harsh and frightening to her. She worried that they would decide to set their words to life and rape the captives, and the thoughts of being cruelly ravished and later giving birth to goblin-men filled her with cold dread.

The night wore on. Already the orcs were giddy from their first raid into the Eastfold and the skirmish with the Riders only had heightened their excitement. The songs continued, but they became less bawdy and more cruel, speaking of battle and bloodshed, maiming and mauling, tormenting and torturing, devouring and consuming. Malicious, leering glances were cast towards the captives, and chills of excitement coursed through the veins of the orcs. The only thing that spared the women from being raped and killed were the orders of Mordor.

But Mordor said naught about sport. Some of the orcs seized a woman from the crowd of cringing captives. After stripping her naked, they tied her to a tree and then amused themselves by throwing daggers at her trembling form and listening to her panicked screams. Elfhild recognized the woman; her name was Ascwyn, a gentle sort with hair of icy flaxen. The twin maidens watched in horror, looking away and then looking back again, always fearing that one of the daggers would find the woman's heart. Of course, Ascwyn was spared from death, for the orcs knew their orders well, but the woman did receive many cuts and nicks from the sharp blades. At last she fell into a swoon from fright and weariness and slumped against the ropes, her bonds the only thing keeping her limp form from sliding to the ground.

Laughing, the orcs released her, tending to her cuts and giving her draught. Then they stripped and tied another woman to the tree and began their game again. Other orcs taunted the prisoners, threatening them with cruel jests and lunging at them with wicked knives just to hear them scream in terror. The band of savages soon worked themselves up into a fervor of lust and zeal, until their all senses became consumed with the sight and smell of blood, and all they could think about was fighting and killing. Heaping more wood upon the fire until it became a towering blaze, they began to dance around it in a circle, chanting and singing their dreadful songs and shrieking cries of battle and war.

"Fire, fire, bruzûm, ghaash  
Smoke, embers, soot and ash  
Steel on steel, swords that clash  
Cowing prisoners under lash  
Hai! Hai! Harri hai!  
Blood on blade and fire on hill  
We go to do our Master's will  
Smoke in sky and tears on earth  
Death to joy, death to mirth  
Hai! Hai! Harri hai!  
Down with sun and wicked light  
Cursing us like a evil blight  
May always Darkness reign supreme  
And tainted be what once was green  
Hai! Hai! Harri hai!  
Glory to the Dark Lord's Hand  
Stretching out over all the land  
May His power and His Might  
Usher in this Age of Night  
Hai! Hai! Harri hai!  
Hoy hoy - hoy hey!"

The singing, dancing and dagger-sport went on into the weary hours of the night, until all the orcs were either too exhausted or too drunk to continue. Then the camp fell silent and once more the Firien Wood was quiet, as both captor and captive alike slept beneath the creeping boughs of the revered forest.

The prisoners were awakened before dawn for a morning without light, and after a meager breakfast of paltry bread and stream water, they were herded by the press of spear and sword to hasten on their way east, ever east. Travel weariness tarried their steps until many felt that simply putting one foot before the other was a struggle that they could endure but little longer. Weight seemed to disappear from their bodies, especially the children, whose frightened eyes now looked shadowed and tired with dark circles.

It was impossible for them to use the roadbed to travel, for the army kept marching by in endless waves like some strange dark sea. Away from the road the ground was much rougher, uneven, broken in places, here and there clustered with brambles and thorny vines that often seemed to reach out and ensnare a careless foot. Those who did not have the protection of thick leather shoes and hose had ankles streaked with the harsh bite of the thorns. They were given no time to remove the thorny spines from painful scratches, for many had hands that were bound and small children and mothers who had babes in arms received only snarls when they asked in quivering voices to be allowed to rest just a while.

After more grueling miles crossed on feet now aching, the captain of the company called a halt. He turned the captives over to the charge of his sergeant and went to look for a comfortable spot under a tree where he could drink his draught in peace. The sergeant quickly had the lads busy at building a fire or going to a small stream nearby and filling water flasks while he ordered others to untie the hands of the captives and allow them to rest.

"Don't none of you get any ideas about running away," the sergeant snapped, "because you aren't going anywhere unless we take you. I'm in a good mood this evening, and I've gotten used to your foolish chatter, so I'm allowing you to sit about together while you eat. Of course," he said and threw back his head and laughed, his yellow, broken fangs showing through his parted lips, "I might want some recompense later tonight." His fellows laughed great mocking laughs and eyed the women and children greedily.

"No!" he shouted. "I don't mean that, you fools! You won't be allowed to eat them! Remember, no spoiling, can't you fools accept that?" His corporal, a younger uruk, turned his face away and his mouth twisted in a smug, contorted smile of knowing.

"You try any of that, and I'll have your balls cut off." The corporal lost his smirk and pulling some trail bread from his pack, he tore it into pieces and began distributing it to women and children. The sergeant went on. "No, we were ordered no spoiling, but they didn't say we couldn't have a bit of sport like we had last night, just so the wenches stay intact and none have been deflowered."

The captives only wished for the sergeant to cease his cruel words and for all of the orcs to leave them in peace.

As the afternoon began to wear on, the air suddenly seemed more chill, and the dry leaves moved when there was no wind blowing. Things off in the woods seemed to grow dimmer as the dry leaves moaned in an unseen breeze. An uneasiness could be felt in the very air. Growing darker now, a thin mist damp and dark crept out of the woods and closed in about the captives. Colder now, the air did not move but still the tree leaves swayed and rustled. The sounds of the beating drums and marching feet of the army seemed more distant, as though the sound were coming from a cavern somewhere beneath the earth. The captives began to feel as though they were walking in an uneasy dream, but their orc guards did not seem to notice. Shadows took shape and moved back in the trees beyond the small clearing where the camp had been set up.

Moving through the cold, dark mist a horseman upon a great black steed came into sight. The captain of the army he was, and at his left side was his lieutenant, a figure clad in sable and scarlet and mounted upon a beautiful black mare. Upon the lieutenant's head was a black wrapped headdress and his unseen face was veiled in dark cloth. A scarlet cloak partly hid his shadowy armor and a scimitar was strapped to his back. Behind the two riders at a short distance followed another group of horsemen, advisors and lesser officers.

Raucous laughter, quarreling, jeering and taunting silenced suddenly as the orcs stopped the tasks they were attending and turned to face the column, standing rigidly at attention. The captives were ordered upon their feet, but many needed little prompting, for a sense of awe and dismay had come over them at the first sight of the two riders. Then the orcs commanded the women and children to fall to their knees and bow their heads in homage of their conquerors.

Forward rode the captain, tall and broad shouldered, a shadow of darkness in the dim light of the evening. His horse's headstall and tall saddle were black and adorned with runes, strange signs and symbols in flashing silver, and silver tassels hung from the black reins. A black and silver caparison was draped over the horse's haunches, the dangling tassels upon the material bouncing as the great charger pranced. The horse was not armored for battle but was the mount of a conquering warrior upon a triumphal parade into a ravished city.

The rider's halberk was of black rings, as was his surcoat. Silver-plated vambraces he wore on his arms and thick leather boots upon his feet. His face was concealed by a black hooded cloak which was fastened at the shoulder by a brooch of mithril silver shaped like a crescent moon, and upon his hooded head was a crown of cold, glimmering steel. The very air seemed chill about him, filled with dread and fear.

Overcome by curiosity, Elfhild raised her head and stared at the kingly rider. Tall he was, taller than any man she had ever seen, even the dark-haired folk of Gondor. Richly arrayed in sable and silver like the splendor of the moon upon a darkened sky, she knew he was a high lord of the Nameless Land, ever the foe and now the conqueror of her people. She found she could not wrench her gaze from the kingly figure, and she became terrified that he would notice her. Yet still she stared as though held spellbound by a dragon's charms.

The rider halted his great black stallion, the horse's curb chain tinkling, the saddle leather creaking. His lieutenant by his side also reined in his horse, and the whole army ground to a halt behind them. Slowly the dark rider turned his head from side to side and sniffed, and then his unseen eyes seemed to rivet themselves upon Elfhild.

"What is your name?" a voice, marked with an accent which was unfamiliar and strangely chilling, hissed out of the dark hood. The words were commanding, as though a mighty and powerful king had deigned to speak with one of his new subjects.

Her heart froze. She looked up into the dim recesses of the black hood and her gaze became transfixed, as though the darkness which lay from the mighty shoulders to the rim of the kingly crown was slowly reaching out in billowy clouds to envelop her trembling form in an icy mist. "Elfhild daughter of Eadbald," she stammered timidly.

"And from what village do you hail?"

Icy shivers trailed down her spine like tiny fingers when she heard the rider's words. All was still save the dull thudding of her own heart and then the sound of her voice as she spoke. "Grenefeld of the Eastfold."

There was another sniff of the air, long and deep. "I will remember."

Then he touched the spurs to his horse's sides and rode away, his lieutenant at his side, the escort coming behind and then the troops to the rear.

* * *

The first song was written by Angmar and Elfhild. The second song was written entirely by Elfhild. This song and some of the orc dialog were inspired by this quote from The Treason of Isengard, "'The Mighty One has great business afoot,' says one [of the orcs]. 'All that has gone before is but a skirmish compared with the war that is about to be kindled. Fine days, fine days! Blood on blade and fire on hill, smoke in sky and tears on earth. Merry weather, my friends, to bring a real New Year!'" ("The Story Foreseen from Lórien," The Treason of Isengard, p. 332.)

"Matum, matum, grish, ghaash, ghaash!" - "Death, death, blood, fire, fire!"  
"Bruzûm, ghaash" - "Darkness, fire."  
"Tarkûrz whore" - A Gondorian whore. (Black Speech "Tark" meaning "man of Gondor," from Quenya "Tarkil," one of Númenorean descent.)

The crescent moon imagery is pure Tolkien and taken from the 1954 dust-jacket design Tolkien created for The Two Towers. The book describes the liveries of Minas Morgul and standard Mordor: "Two liveries Sam noticed, one marked by the Red Eye, the other by a Moon disfigured with a ghastly face of death; but he did not stop to look more closely." ("The Tower of Cirith Ungol," Return of the King, p.179)

Just what is the ghastly face of death? In Tolkien's drawing, the tower of Minas Morgul, which appears as a standard medieval tower and not as some gruesome, nightmarish structure, (in fact, the tower of Minas Morgul is almost identical to the drawing of the White Tower of Ecthelion in The Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad) is shown beneath a crescent moon. Yet the moon looks pale and thin and could be considered "sickly" or "deathly."


	10. Mysteries and Promises

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Though the dark rider and his lieutenant had passed and once again the orcs had allowed their captives freedom to move about, Elfhild continued to stare in the direction in which the two riders had gone. Cold chills still rippled throughout her body, the lingering remnants of a shadowy and inexplicable fear. There was an evil air about the tall man clad in black, one of veiled power and might. His coming was as a shadow of withering winter, deep and dark and full of dread, prickling the skin and chilling the bone. He left fear in his wake, and many of the captives were still tense and shaken, though the Road was now filled with a column of prancing horses.

All were black and handsome steeds; fine creatures of gleaming shadow with neatly combed and braided manes and tails. The riders' helms and halberks were black and their livery was of sable unblazoned, though not as rich and splendid as that of their lord, the mysterious kingly rider. His escort these riders were, riding ahead of the dreadful host which sought to do battle against a land mostly filled with women and children.

Yet while her glazed eyes were affixed upon the Road, Elfhild noticed little of the splendor of the enemy cavalry, for she was deep in her own thoughts, her mind a muddled mixture of fear, grief, anger and worry. And now there was even more to fill her tormented thoughts, for the words of the dark rider still echoed in her head:

"I will remember."

And in the back of her mind, slowly infiltrating her thoughts like hazy fragments of a dream mostly forgotten in waking, like the seductive sway of a slithering serpent, was a strange sense of creeping mystery and darkness both dreadful and alluring. Despite all dread, despite all fear, she had felt compelled to raise her head and gaze upon the approaching rider, to see the one whose very presence summoned forth shadows beneath the trees and rendered the air cold and chill. Why had she adventured her life on a bold impulse to satisfy mere curiosity?

Elffled watched the procession with her sister, looking on as row after row of horses trotted by. The sight of such beautiful horseflesh being ridden by men of the enemy filled Elffled with resentment, for she knew the horses had been taken from the herds of her own land. Now she knew how those horses felt, to be stolen from the fields they loved and taken to toil in servitude to enemy masters. "Poor, dear things," she thought. "At least they are seeing their old land again, but alas! now they are forced to bear the proud Easterlings and Southrons upon their backs and go to war against the folk who once cherished their sires like their own children."

The beasts did appear to be faring well, though, bedecked in their fancy trappings and shining in the bloom of health. That was encouraging, for Elffled had always heard that it was an evil fate for a horse to be taken to the Dark Land. Unbeknownst to her, many of the horses came from other lands beside Rohan - -the many vassal states of Mordor - but of this she had no way of knowing, for she was only an unlettered and untutored peasant maid. The black breeching straps made diamond shapes across the horses' backs; silvery steel disks adorned each intersection of the leather and silver tassels hung from the ends. More tassels hung from their reins and at the center of their breast collars was the heraldry device of a gleaming crescent moon. Soon the escort passed, followed by riders of lower rank. Ordinary riders these were, and both horse and man alike were clad in plain, somber black.

A harsh, angry voice startled both Elfhild and Elffled from their thoughts. They both flinched, almost cringing at the sudden burst of sound. "Why did you tell that man of the enemy your name?" Leofgifu demanded, looking at Elfhild.

"I... I do not know," she stammered, intimidated by the brisk tone in her kinswoman's voice. The words were the truth, for Elfhild was still pondering the matter of why she had looked at the Rider in the first place.

"This bodes ill," Elffled thought, frowning. "Why must they argue at a time like this?" Her head began to hurt again.

"Foolish maid! Do you not know how perilous it is to reveal yourself before one of the enemy?" Leofgifu cried angerily, waving her hand about in the air. "He was one of those accursed Easterlings or mayhaps a Southron; a dangerous, evil man, not a wandering peddler or a traveling bard!"

Elfhild's face flushed. "I know that," she said briskly. Her eyes darted to her sister, who sat beside her. Elffled looked away, glancing at the army upon the Road. She did not want to be a part of this quarrel, for she was weary and her head had ached since late morning.

"Foolish!" Leofgifu cried again. The older woman's eyes were wide with dread and desperation and her hastily-spoken words angry and filled with fear. Many of the captives turned their heads to see who was quarreling and what the commotion was about. Elfhild glared at her aunt. Through the dim haze of the evening, she descried that many of her friends from the village were staring at her as they sat in little circles with their mothers and elder kinswomen. The heavy air was filled with the soft hum of whispers and Elfhild knew everyone must be talking about her.

"People are looking at us," Elfhild hissed, her eyes flashing.

"You seemed to care little about that when you raised your head and gawked at that man," Leofgifu accused. "Mayhaps you angered him by your uncouth staring, and he shall remember your name so he may punish you. I pray your foolishness has not doomed us all!"

Despite her growing irritation, Elfhild felt prickles of fear in her heart and her skin began to rise in little bumps. What if she had indeed greatly offended a high lord of the enemy by her innocent act of impertinence? Her eyes darted to the side; she expected to see the looming figures of several tall man-orcs storming towards her to take her away, never to be seen again. "Oh, I hope not!" she exclaimed.

"I hope not either, Elfhild," Leofgifu said gravely. "The man looked like a king or a high lord; a man of great power. They told us to kneel to him and bow our heads. Why did you have to raise your head and look to see who was coming? That was a foolish thing to do! What possessed you, Elfhild?"

"I am sorry," Elfhild muttered dismissively. "I hate these accursed murdering orcs and I hate following their orders. It was not long ago when there were no orders to follow and my mother was yet alive."

"We all hate the orcs but sometimes there is wisdom in obeying their commands, especially when they have swords and we have naught," Leofgifu replied.

There was a moment of silence. Elfhild could not deny the truth in her aunt's words, but she was too proud to admit it. Hunig began to fidget restlessly. Elffled sniffed, something she often did when she felt uncomfortable.

"Still it was foolish for you to have stared at that man, much less talk to him." Leofgifu's voice lowered. "Did you not sense something peculiar about him? The very sight of him from afar filled me with fear and dread!"

"He frightened me, Mother," Hunig interjected timidly.

"Aye," Leofgifu said softly. "Everything became darker when he came, like it does when a fierce storm approaches, and then when he left, the light returned, what little there is of it."

Elfhild looked down. She knew full well the perils of revealing her true name, and she shuddered to think of the woes she may have brought upon herself and what was left of her family. But it frightened her even more to think of what could have befallen them had she refused to talk to the Rider. Mayhap there was no resisting his questions; if he was so powerful, then he could just force her voice to speak against her will. She shivered at that thought.

"He frightened me, too," Elfhild admitted quietly.

"So why did you look at him like a fool?" Leofgifu demanded again.

The words stung her; she had not been expecting them. Though Elfhild knew her aunt was right, pride and indignation stirred in her heart once again. She did not like being called a fool and she opened her mouth to protest, but her aunt did not give her the chance.

"You were as a child, trusting and innocent," Leofgifu rebuked. "Did fear render you senseless and leave you a simpleton?"

"Of course not!" Elfhild cried indignantly. She wished a hole in the earth would open up beneath her feet and swallow her up. Her heart was already filled with worry and woe, and she did not need her aunt to add to the dismal sum of sorrows. Her fists clenched and she fumed at the injustice of such unfair accusations. Her aunt was making her seem like an irresponsible fool who had little control over her own tongue! Bitter tears stung her eyes but she willed herself not to cry and whine like a child.

"Why then did you look at him? What if he was a sorcerer, practiced in the arts of dark magick? This is not one of those tales about wraiths, wights or witches that you love so much. You were in real danger and in front of a whole army, Elfhild, not sitting around the brazier at home."

Elfhild flushed. "Of course not! I know that. I know full well the peril that I was in, but I did not purposely go looking for danger. It just happened that way."

"It just happened? What does that mean?" Leofgifu remarked in disbelief. "Why, you stared as one awestruck and enchanted. Did you find the splendor of the dark knight and his prancing charger so utterly bewitching? You were gawking at him like you do all the lads!"

Elfhild gasped in utter horror and humiliation at these words and her cheeks flamed a crimson red. She had tried not to do that in Osric's presence, but a trip to the village was always a cause for excitement, and she could not help but study everything which she saw. More keenly than ever she felt the presence of friends and kin about her, listening to her every word, and she blushed even more.

"Aunt Leofgifu!" Elfhild cried hoarsely. "I was doing no such thing! I am not some silly maid who gawks at every man in armor. I hate the Dark Land and all the folk who serve the Nameless Enemy, whether they are orc or man. All are fiends, murderers and thieves, barbarians and savages, including that dark rider, no matter how lordly or kingly he was!"

Elffled cleared her throat loudly. Two sets of glaring blue eyes quickly turned in her direction. "The orcs are watching and you are providing their amusement for this eve," the younger twin stated quietly, nodding her head back towards the edge of the camp closest to the Road. Falling silent now, Elfhild and Leofgifu saw that indeed a band of orcs had gathered there. The brutes were laughing and talking amongst themselves, pointing at Elfhild and her aunt and then snickering at some crude jest of their fellows.

"Curse them!" Elfhild hissed under her breath, clenching her fists.

"'Tis indeed most fortunate that they do not know our language, for doubtless we would suffer if they knew we were speaking ill of their dark rider," Leofgifu whispered, her voice suddenly sober and solemn.

"Aye, especially if they were ordered to watch us. The rider said he would remember me, after all," Elfhild whispered, suddenly fearful. She cast furtive glances to the woods about herself, expecting to see spies and watchers lurking among the trees.

"Well, we have certainly given them enough to watch," Elffled remarked dryly. "The Enemy would be pleased. Strife among kin - He delights in such things."

"Aye, this is true," Leofgifu nodded.

Elfhild sighed heavily. Being reminded of the now ever-constant presence of orcs and fell men had cooled her anger and now she felt frightened and weary. She looked to her aunt. Though they were not related by blood, Leofgifu was older and knew far more than she. Her aunt had been right; to disobey the orders of the orcs and gawk at the rider was perilous folly. Elfhild prayed that no one would suffer for her lack of good judgment and restraint, and if punishment was inescapable, she hoped that she would be the only one to pay the cost.

"Aunt Leofgifu, I... I am sorry," Elfhild said slowly, the heat rising to her cheeks. "Truly I am. Mayhap indeed I was bewitched, for I was filled with a great curiosity and only desired to see what great person or creature was coming. But," she protested, "I did not mean any harm by it!"

"Oh, Elfhild," Leofgifu muttered softly, shaking her head, "you are hopeless."

Elffled looked to her sister and nodded in agreement. Elfhild glared at her.

"When the rider stopped, so did the army," Elfhild continued, her voice low and hushed. "Terror seized me and I was sorely afraid. Then he spoke, and I knew there was no resisting him. He would have surely killed me right there had I lied about my name and he perceived my falsehood, or if I refused to answer his question altogether!"

"You did the wisest thing you could, I guess," Leofgifu sighed.

"I hope so," Elfhild said uncertainly. "Maybe the rider's words were an idle threat. We are but peasants, no one of great importance. We would be less than dirt in his eyes. He probably forgot my name just as soon as he rode by me. I certainly pray that he did."

This seemed reasonable to Elfhild. There was no reason why the man should remember her. There was nothing any different or unique about her than there was about the other captives. True, she was considered by many to be pretty, but she did not think her beauty was enough to charm a king. Royalty tended to favor royalty; she was just another nameless peasant girl. Yes, the rider's words were only an idle threat and nothing would become of the matter.

"I suppose we will find out soon enough. There is naught we can do about it now," Leofgifu said with resignation. Elfhild and Elffled nodded. There was a pause and then both maidens and their aunt fell silent, deep in their own thoughts.

Leofgifu wanted to believe that her husband's sister-daughter was only being fanciful when she said that she wondered if she had been enchanted. The maid was was quite enamored with tales and songs, especially those which were frightening. The kingly rider was some lord of the enemy with vast hordes of men under his command; that made him a fell and fearsome enough foe as it was. But he was as a figure of pure darkness, darker than the livery which he wore upon his earthly body, yea, blacker even than the shadow of dread which seemed to emanate from his very being. Mayhap he was indeed a sorcerer - or a demon. Just what exactly had Elfhild provoked by her foolishness; what sort of horrors had she unwittingly brought upon them all?

Elffled's head still ached and thinking deeply made it throb with a fury. Yet it was hard not to ponder and fret about what had happened. She had not seen the black rider, for she knew it was not wise to unduly anger the orcs, but she had felt increasingly cold and frightened as his horse drew nigh. True, it was unseasonably cold for the sun could not warm the land, but this was more than the dismal weather; it was a chill which went to the marrow and turned it into crystals of ice. There was something very unnatural about it all, some dark dwimmer-craft or foul art of the Enemy. She knew a glimmering about such matters from the tales her family told around the brazier, legends from the distant Mountains, where her mother's kin had once dwelt, or stories out of Edoras, where her father's brothers lived. Her sister always liked those types of tales almost as she did ones of battle and love. It would be Elfhild who would anger a sorcerer or a spirit because of some wild notion of curiosity, a desire to find out the unknown.

Time passed, the evening meal was served and tensions calmed somewhat from the food, plain and painfully inadequate though it was. Soon the loudest noises in the camp were soft whispers, weeping and the sound of gentle breathing. The dull hum of foul orc-speech was all about them. Occasionally, there would be a loud, raucous laugh, but the lads were almost peaceful this eve. Mayhap they were still reeling from the revelry and dagger sport of the night before.

The darkness deepened and weary eyes began to slip shut. Perhaps the orcs would allow them to rest and sleep in peace this night. Yawning, the twin sisters wished goodnight to their aunt and cousin. This was Elfhild's solemn tradition ere bedtime and she seldom broke it, for she had been weary one evening when she was ten and had fallen asleep early without wishing her grandmother well. Her grandmother had died in her sleep that night.

The captives were spreading out their cloaks upon the dewy ground to shield their bodies from the cold dampness. Elfhild bent down over her sister, who was lying upon her cloak, and kissed her forehead. "May your dreams be pleasant and free of worry. I hope to find your head feeling better in the morning," she whispered as Elffled's eyelids fluttered open; she had already fallen asleep. Elffled smiled up at her, mumbling something indiscernible, and then her eyes closed again.

Moving to her aunt, Elfhild kissed her cheek. "And your dreams as well," she whispered. "Again, I am sorry for my foolishness."

Leofgifu smiled softly. "Let us not think about it now, for thoughts of darkness and fear will turn pleasant dreams into nightmares."

Elfhild nodded and after kissing and wishing a sleepy Hunig goodnight, she returned her sister's side. Lying down upon her cloak and wrapping herself in it, Elfhild closed her eyes, but her mind was too filled with thoughts to sleep.

"I will remember."

Her muscles tensed as the rider's words echoed again and again in her head. Her fingers began to tremble when she recalled the words of their short conversation, and how frightened she had felt in his presence. She clenched her fists and turned over on her other side, closing her eyes tightly. She did not want that man to remember her and prayed he would forget!

Yet still she wondered about him. What sort of man was he? He was the tallest man she had ever seen, a towering figure with broad shoulders and a powerfully built form. His voice was cold and distinguished, and his articulated manner of speaking was heavy-laden with a strange accent which sent a shiver down her spine. It filled her both with fright and with intrigue; it was as mysterious as he, both perilous and alluring at the same time. He was a king or of royal blood, for a lofty crown rested atop his head and he was wrapped in sable dark as the night shot with silver which glittered like starlight and moonbeams. There was something mystical about him, something arcane and forbidden, and it beckoned to her, calling to her with soft, seductive promises of hidden things dark and unknown.

What did he look like beneath the hood which obscured his face? She had seen only a cavern of darkness and felt the steady intensity of his eyes upon her. They seemed to pierce through her flesh and see into her mind and heart, leaving her naked and helpless before him. There was no escape from his questions; there never had been. If she had lied, she sensed he would have divined her secret thoughts, and if she had been silent, he would have constrained her to speak.

Such power swathed in shadows, shrouded in mystery, veiled in unlight. What did that hood hide that light would reveal? She dared to envision his face in her mind. He was probably swarthy with raven hair and eyes like pools of murky darkness, for she had heard that the folk from the South and East possessed those features. Perhaps he braided small strands of his hair and beard as did the men of the Mark. Was his dark face stern and handsome with shining white teeth that glittered between his beard and mustache when he smiled?

And what would it feel like if those lips touched hers as he held her in his strong arms and gently stroked her hair? Would the ice in his voice melt into warm honey as he whispered sweet words into her ear, softly spoken dewdrops of speech in between showers of kisses? She would giggle and writhe in his grasp, for the soft puffs of air from his mouth would tickle her skin and send shivers rippling from the spots where he touched her. A lingering sensation, chilled from the air and tingling still from the gentle pressure of his lips; she longed to touch her cheek, her ear, her neck, but, oh, her hands were roaming over his back, fingertips dancing lightly upon strong shoulders, and then moving up to his hair, where she wrapped her fingers about the wavy strands.

And what would it feel like if he made love to her?

Elfhild's cheeks were on fire and her heart was pounding. Her thoughts were racing wildly and she desperately tried to rein them in. Why was she thinking such things? And about an enemy, no less! Cruel, swarthy savages could never compare to the valiant men of the Mark and their strong muscles, broad chests, ruddy skin and golden hair. Had it been so long since she had seen a man that she now desired one of the wild men of the Dark Lands? Alas for Osric! He would feel betrayed and surely think that her thoughts were most lewd. If they knew, her father, mother, brother, uncle, all of her kinsmen and kinswomen and every last one of her ancestors would be ashamed of her and castigate her greatly. She felt both guilty and a traitor for thinking such base thoughts.

She had always tried to maintain her purity, both in mind and in body. Dreams and daydreams of an intimate nature both embarrassed her greatly and aroused her curiosity, for she was but a maiden and knew little of the secrets of the physical expression of love. She did not like to let her mind dwell upon such matters, though, for maids who thought of naught but flesh and frolic were wanton and simpleminded, dull-witted and uninteresting. Wenches such as those would lay with any man, caring little of broken hearts or homes. They were no more than whores, though little payment did they ask for their favors save their own pleasure.

Elfhild was nothing like them. Though she often admired the lads of her village from afar and took great delight in their attentions, anything more than a kiss or an embrace was reserved for maidenly conjecture and the marriage bed. She did not understand why her thoughts had strayed so far beyond the hobbles she had placed upon her own mind to avoid the temptations of the flesh and the shameful consequences of failing to restrain the passions whilst unwed. Was she going mad from the horrors that had befallen her and her sister?

She turned over onto her back and stared up at the dark canopy of spidery branches above her. What had she gotten herself into? Sighing heavily, she closed her eyes and tried to will herself to think no more of the dark rider or his promise. Sleep was slow in coming.

"I will remember."

The words repeated themselves over and over, a strange lullaby easing her into a dreamless oblivion.


	11. All Things Forbidden

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The captives awoke the next morning to the beat of drums, an incessant, unpleasant thumping that was monotonous in its rhythm. The sharp snarlings of the orcs were a harsh contrast to the throbbing song of the drums, and together they made a discordant harmony.

"Get up off your shiftless arses!" were the first words which the captives heard from their captors that morning. These insults were hardly new to the captives, for during the past two days that they had been held, their ears had almost grown accustomed to such talk. They perceived, though, that there was something different today, more of a sense of urgency among their keepers. Their observations had not misled them, for orders had come the night before to all the captains. There was concern among the army commanders that the orcs were not capable of keeping an accurate tally of the prisoners. The captains considered that this was very important to their superiors, and eager to please them and fearful not to, they would comply with whatever their officers wished. The Master desired order and rule in all things and all things would be done as He ordained.

"You there!" a corporal would call out. "You, the wench with the two brats, stand here with these others! This is the group you will stay with at all times!"

The orders came quickly. The corporals and the privates separated the captives into groups of ten. All around the clearing where the captives were held, these groups of ten were then banded together into groups of a hundred. Their masters felt it would be far easier to keep account of their prisoners this way. There were many captives, and the orcs became increasingly frustrated at the slow progress which was made in organizing the captives into their proper groups. Elfhild and her kin had been placed in a group with six others.

After the prisoners had been herded into their respective troops - as the orcs called a group of ten in their army - the Rohirric women and children were told to form two lines of five troops parallel to each other. Commanding each troop was a corporal.

"Listen, you worthless drabs," the corporals had shouted, "this is the way you are to form up every morning as soon as you awake while we count you. No food until you do!"

A sergeant stood in the clearing, looking the rows up and down. He was an ugly brute with a thick, heavy scar that ran from beneath his right eye all the way to his chin. Though the wound had been stitched, it had never properly healed. The skin around his eye was drawn downward, the flesh puckered grotesquely around the scar. At the sight of him, the captives cringed and looked away, while their children sometimes burst out into tears. A few older boys referred to him among themselves as "Scarface."

"Stand up straight, you wenches," the sergeant barked the order. "What an ugly bunch you make, nothing but dirty slatterns, the whole lot of you! Your stench makes me want to gag!" he snarled as his nose wrinkled up in contempt. The insult was especially insulting since it came from such a brute.

"Now you see," the sergeant stalked up and down between the two lines of fifty each, "there are rules, and if you want to stay out of trouble, you're going to abide by them. Every morning, when you hear the drum, you are to drag your fat, ugly arses out of your sacks and stand for morning roll call! We want to make sure that all of you are still with us," he growled, "and that none of you ran away during the night. Whatever troop you are in today, you will stay with until we get to Minas Tirith.

"Skai!" he cursed as he looked at them. "By the Dark One's hairy balls! You're a whole company, a company of slave wenches, and you are in my charge! My name is Glokal, and as long as you live, you will never forget that name. My dam named me that, for she said that I was sprightly and liked to bite on her teat when I nursed." He laughed uproariously, and the corporals and the lads joined him in his mirth. "Slave wenches! No damned good for fighting," he spat, "good for nothing more than cooking, raising your squalling little curs and being ridden at night!"

The sergeant paced up and down the line, looking into the face of each woman and child. A thought of new torment gleamed in his yellowish eyes and he drew up close to one woman. His breath was as foul as the stench of the vapor steaming into the night from the depths of the dung trenches and he blew it full into her face.

"You see this broken tooth I got here," he told them as he opened his mouth wide and tugged back the lip, a strand of spittle oozing out of the corner of his mouth and dangling on his chin. His gaping maw revealed a set of yellow fangs. One incisor was a broken stump, jagged, rotting, the gum swollen in a massive, sickening red lump around the base. "How do you think I got this? I bit off the nipple of a she-strawhead one time and the accursed thing was so tough and leathery that I broke out a tooth!" He grinned at the corporal and the lads behind him, and was pleased at the expressions on their faces. All of them were convulsed in mirth, their faces growing red with laughter.

Then turning back to the woman, the sergeant snarled into her face, "I knocked out three of her teeth for that, and I wear them around my neck, as well as some others I've taken over the years." He pulled a string of teeth from beneath his leather armor. "Hers are these three right here." He pointed at three teeth on the strand. "Do you see them?" He held the gristly necklace in front of the woman's face.

"I see," she said as she cringed. "I see too well." She thought to herself, "He is lying, trying to frighten me, and he is!"

"Are your teats as tough as that?" he asked as he reached out and encircled her breast with a meaty paw. The woman looked at him in horror. Twisting one of her nipples through the material, he howled in laughter as she winced. Then he withdrew his hand and let the strand of teeth fall back on his chest. Pleased with his taunting, he stared into the woman's frightened eyes. "Now if I ever wanted to nibble on you, will I find you too tough for my tastes, or nice and firm, the way I like them?"

The woman closed her eyes and tried to hold back the tears.

"If I would break a tooth on you, wench, I'd knock out every tooth in your head as well as those of your two brats." The sergeant twisted the woman's nipple again, harder this time, and smirked as he saw the pain on her face. Giving the abused breast another fierce squeeze, he moved away from her and sauntered down the line of women and children. The sergeant's claim, of course, was a fabrication meant to intimidate the captives and make them quail in fear.

Insulting words merely cloaked the uruks' true desires. They were far more appreciative of the charms of the Rohirric captives than they would ever reveal. They considered it was a sign of weakness to betray the awe they felt for the beauty of blue eyes, pale skin and golden hair. Some inwardly cursed themselves, feeling that there might be a twisted remainder of the old Elvish nature which still lingered in their blood. Perhaps sometime that tainted Elvish blood would break forth anew and one of them might let slip a word of kindness. There was always the fear that one of their comrades might notice this weakness. Then to his mortification, he would hear the jeering words, "Here's one who's reverting to the old ways! Pretty boy, next you'll be climbing trees to admire the leaves!"

Woe to the one who showed even a trace of mercy or kindness! In their cruel society, none were more abhorred than the fool who betrayed even a slight appreciation for the ways long lost. Many times those who showed Elvish tendencies were found out when young and then killed for being disgraces to their clans. Sometimes, though, if they were lucky, they might be allowed to live as catamites to males whose tastes ran to their own gender, or as slaves to strong, burly she-orcs who liked to dominate weaker males. Ages before their race had been shaped and molded in the torture chambers of Utumno, and they and their descendants had been twisted into mocking parodies of once gentle souls.

Melkor's worst offense, the One and the Valar had deemed it. Shining and gleaming in their flaming purity and wrath, they often pled for others to show mercy, but showed little to the orcs. Cursed and doomed to extinction by all other races, the orcs and their kindred were hated beyond others, their bloodline tainted, forever irredeemable. Men who considered themselves as upright and righteous cursed whenever they perceived someone of their own race as having what they considered as "orcish traits." But were the cursed and the cursing so far different from the ones that, they, themselves, reviled?

The lads were lusting for the captives, but were too fearful of what would befall them should they give vent to their passions. They had exercised self-control and discipline all during the westward march, for the captives were valued as slaves by those in command. Nobles in the East would pay well for the women in the markets, the virgins bringing the highest price. Any half-breeds misbegotten upon the trail would usually be snuffed out in the womb. If they were allowed to be birthed and grow to maturity, they would be sent to the army. No captives had been despoiled during the pillaging and raiding, but it had been weeks since the uruks had rutted with females of their own kind. Even the captain was not immune to thoughts. Still, he had been first to laugh in ridicule when one of the men, toying with himself during the night, had groaned out as he spent his seed in his hand. It would be a long march eastward with such burning lusts and the fair captives ever in view.

The sergeant moved on to Elfhild's troop. He stopped before a golden-haired mother of three sons. Leaning forward, he put his hands upon her shoulders, letting them rest there. His eyes gleamed as he looked menacingly into hers.

"You think we are ignorant monsters and barbarians, don't you? That's the way your kind sees us. You wouldn't know it, or believe it if you did know it, but some of us can read and write, and more than our names, too! Now little strawhead mother, I know these three by your side are yours, and what clever tads they are," the sergeant remarked. He knelt down, squatting on his heels, and peered at the three children. The youngest lad, a boy of about five, clutched desperately at the hem of his mother's dress. His brothers eyed the orc warily. "You there, you little strawhead pup," he pointed to the youngest, "can you count?"

The little boy was terrified by the nearness of the orc. Trembling, he felt his bladder suddenly release as a warm trickle of urine began to run down the insides of his thighs. He stammered , "Nay, sir, I cannot."

"Well, I can, and so can the corporal over there," he motioned with a jerk of his head to where the corporal stood. "Every morning, he is going to count you and your folk, all ten of you in number, and when he is finished, he will report the total count back to me." The sergeant got to his feet again. "I'll have your folk counted both morning and night, and you best all be here. No running now, or trying to sneak away, because when you're caught again, I will bury you up to the neck in the ground and leave you to rot!"

"Yes, sir! I will be a good boy!" His blue eyes round with fear, the child thought that if the orc continued to stare at him, he might become sick at his stomach.

Tousling the boy's hair, the orc gave him a cruel leer and then turned and walked a few paces away, where he surveyed the line before him. "Now it's time for morning rations. The lords, the commanders of this army, have been most generous to you worthless pieces of filth. We have been ordered to give you each a piece of meat both morning and night, but remember where it came from and be grateful." His yellow eyes raked over the line from left to right. Seeing that all eyes were upon him, he smiled, the hideous scar drawing his face to one side. "Now it is time to eat! Form a line for your provisions!" the sergeant barked out the order as a corporal and two privates began to distribute portions of orc bread and dry meat to the waiting captives.

"You wenches eat far more than you're worth!" the sergeant exclaimed, looking at them with a malicious gleam in his eyes. He stood some paces back from the line of captives. Resting his hands on his hips, he watched with contempt as each one came forward to receive the rations.

The others in the company had already received their portions by the time it was Elfhild's turn, for she and her sister were near the end of the line. The sergeant's gaze rested on Elfhild as she stood in turn, waiting for the morning's piece of bread.

"Garn, mates, will you look at that!" The sergeant rubbed his hands together, an appreciative look on his face. "I recognize this one by her smell!" His nostrils flaring, the orc took in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds as he winded her scent. "Unwashed female flesh! How delectable!" A pensive expression on his face, he cocked his head and looked her up and down. "Mayhap you should give her a bit more food tonight. You can be sure that the Ones Who'll be enjoying her and her sister like 'em with fat rumps and big breasts! Their flesh'll make a soft cushion when the Higher Ups roll with them!"

Elfhild looked down, blushing profusely. Never in her life had anyone said such vile things about her. Even when she had been forced to relieve herself in the presence of guards, thankfully the brutes had been quiet and let her go about her shameful business in peace. But now she was too frightened to be indignant about the orc sergeant's obscene remarks. She stood there, frozen in place, her heart pounding.

"Aye," agreed the corporal standing by, "and how I would like to have some of that fat arse now! With two such as these, I might not hurt them so bad when I bedded them."

"Shut your trap. You know they ain't for the likes of us; none of 'em are," the sergeant muttered. "All we poor uruks are left with are the bones, whilst the Higher Ups get the gravy."

One of the privates tossed Elfhild a large piece of orc bread and a section of dried meat. Her cheeks burning at the sting of their words, she caught the food in her hands. The sergeant, having already imbibed upon a generous quantity of draught, was in a jovial mood that morning. "My lads, think of the bounty that we'll get for these two pretties alone!" He reached a tentative finger towards the hair framing Elfhild's face, reluctant to touch one whom the High Nazgûl had noticed. She flinched at the orc's touch but was too frightened to move away.

"Aye, sergeant," the corporal remarked, "and after what we saw and heard last eve, I daresay we'll get paid ten times what we were promised!"

The sergeant jerked his hand away from Elfhild's face and glared at her. "Why are you standing there with your mouth open? You're holding up the line!" he demanded. "Go back to your own troop, and don't you go getting any ideas about mingling with the other folk in the camp. We have put up with quite enough from all of you. Last night, your wrangling kept the lads and me awake 'til dawn. There'll be some strict discipline if any of you do that again," the sergeant warned her.

After a hastily mumbled apology, Elfhild quickly retreated with her sister soon following behind. Both girls were more than glad to comply with the sergeant's orders.

"That wasn't all that kept us awake!" the corporal guffawed after the sisters had retreated. "Old Kulshapatu was hot and bothered last night. Don't know if it was his malady that caused him to groan and jump all night, or if he was able to get off in spite of it!"

The sergeant growled, "Don't need any of your brainless comments, corporal! Besides, he says that ain't the way he got those sores at all. Claims they were old war wounds which went bad and never healed up."

Unwilling to relinquish his bawdy talk, the corporal smirked. "Ain't the way I heard it. There weren't no battles unless you call it the one that the Tarkûrz whore put up when he frigged with her. Hear she was a regular demon - biting, scratching, kicking - and the pox she gave him almost burnt out his crotch!"

"Corporal, another word out of you, and I'll have you put in chains for instigating trouble!" the sergeant bellowed.

"Aye, sergeant," the corporal grumbled.

After the remaining captives had been given their bread and meat, they moved off into the trees and tried to eat their breakfast in peace. The corporal turned back to the sergeant. "Do you think the High Nazgûl," the uruk whispered in the Black Speech, his voice almost reverent, "will want that one for His bed?" He nodded towards Elfhild, who was sitting at a distance away with her sister, Aunt Leofgifu and Hunig.

"Be quiet, you fool!" the sergeant hissed in the same tongue. "Is that all you think about? You'll get us killed if someone overhears your idle words and reports them back." The sergeant darted his eyes from one side to the other, alert that other ears might hear them. Then seeing that only the captives were in range of his voice, he continued. "What else do you think HE would want her for? To discuss military strategy and the ways of waging war? Foolish, corporal, to think that HE would want her for aught else. He's taken a fancy to her; that's why He said He'd remember! She'll be another one of His toys, a sweet thing He enjoys in the idle hours."

The corporal's voice dropped even lower and in a conspiratorial whisper, he confided to the sergeant, "They say He takes His pleasure with them for a while and then who knows what He does with them?" He shrugged his shoulders.

"All you know is foolish gossip, corporal! Ain't the way I heard it at all," the sergeant boasted, as though he were privy to some secret knowledge. "I hear He keeps every last one 'til they die. The word is that He has a fine harem and lavish rooms, even a bath, just like they do in the East. If tales be true, He treats 'em well!"

The corporal shuddered. "Skai! I wager when He's finished with 'em and had His fun, He freezes the flesh right off their bones! Some even say that after they be cold and dead, He frigs with their corpses. When they turn black and start to rot, He eats their decaying flesh, maggots and all, 'til there ain't nothing of them left!" He paled under his greenish gray skin.

"You talk foolish, corporal. Not a word of truth is in what you say. If the truth be known, He keeps 'em and makes 'em just like He is so He always has plenty of them to enjoy!" Even the sergeant shivered a little at the thought of beautiful women copulating with the Undead. "Now that's the final word on it, so be still about it and speak no more," the sergeant snarled.

"Aye, sir, I will be the paragon of good behavior." The very thought of having the flesh frozen right off was too uncomfortable for the corporal. Instead he thought of the warmth the orc draught brought as it went down his throat. Even more comforting were the thoughts of a fulsome wench as she knelt down on her hands and knees and lifted up her plump bottom for his pleasure.

After the captives had eaten their morning meal, the orcs ordered them upon their feet. Soon the column began to travel once more through the rough country at the side of the Road. The captives moved between trees both mighty and small, around densely-knitted thickets of shrubs and underbrush, their feet often stepping over rocks and brambles, but sometimes tripping and stumbling in the dim, shaded light and landing upon the forest floor in a heap.

To their right they could see the army as it marched on the road. Row upon row of prancing chargers trotted past them, and orcs and men marched at a steady pace. Great clouds of dust followed behind, a luminous glow against the dark woods of Firien. Drums beat to the steady rhythm of hooves and marching footsteps and occasionally a horn would be sounded. Harsh voices sang songs in languages unknown to the captives, but though they could not comprehend the words of the dreadful melodies, the meanings were painfully clear - the men sang of death and war, of conquering and conquest.

Though many of the riders were mounted upon black horses, there were also sorrels, chestnuts, bays and steeds of many varying colors. Some were used as pack animals and others were used to haul wains and chariots driven by proud Easterling chieftains and warriors. The soldiers of the enemy frightened the fair yellow-haired women and children, for never before had they seen so many folk with dark skin. Some were tawny, some were swarthy, and some were black as the night. There were bowmen, spearmen, axemen, some tall, some short, some mounted and others on foot. Though many of the men wore livery of sable unblazoned, others wore black and red, or strange scarlet robes beneath brazen scales. To Elfhild and Elffled's amazement, the black horde was woven with many hues.

Often the soldiers would turn their heads and gawk as the women and children shuffled through the trees. Some of the men taunted them in strange and unknown tongues, making lewd comments that the women could not understand, while others looked admiringly at the captives, giving them warm smiles as they passed by. Others narrowed their dark eyes in anger and cursed the captives in hateful voices, spitting in their direction. In the eyes of a few was the same superstitious fear that the captives held for them.

There were fierce orcs and lumbering, dim-witted trolls from stony hill and mountain, all hideous brutes to look upon. Great horned oxen pulled covered wains and monstrous beasts tall as towers shook the ground like thunder. Upon tall poles, banners flapped in the dirty air kicked up by boot and hoof. Some were of bright colors and bore the heraldry of exotic lands. There were the flags of orc bands, adorned with dreadful images created by sloppily rendered stitches or stained with messy pigments. These hung from tall spears with streamers. Skulls of men were impaled atop the points, and the girls shuddered in horror at the sight. Yet the most prominent symbol among the sea of cloth and heraldry was the Red Eye upon a field of black, a fiery orb which seemed to leer in malice at the downtrodden captives.

And then they were gone. The mighty army had passed and the Road lay open to the east. The quietness of the forest seemed to close in upon the captives as the last sounds of the army faded away into the distance.

Onward the captives walked until at last evening came and they left the silent hallows of the forest behind them. They were a little over a mile from the eastern eaves of the Firien Wood, and there they were allowed to rest at the side of the Road. As dusk began to fall, their captors started to make camp for the night.

* * *

Glokal - "Biter" in the Black Speech.


	12. Of Valor and Sorrow

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The soft, ever-changing amber glow of flickering campfires pierced the darkness of of the field where the orcs had set up camp. This would be the first night that many of the prisoners had spent beyond their own realm, for now they had come to Anórien and the Riddermark lay behind them. Though the lands east of the Mering Stream had once belonged to Gondor, the Firien Wood had been considered for long years as the domain of the kings of Rohan.

The women in each troop of ten clustered together, for they were not allowed to mingle with any other captives save those in their own group. The twins were acquainted with all the women in their troop, since they all came from Grenefeld. There was Aunt Leofgifu, of course, and her daughter Hunig. Then there was Breguswith, a tall woman, plain yet pleasant of face, and her five-month-old babe. She and her husband had once lived to the west of Grenefeld, but the twins knew little about her or her family. From what they had seen of her so far, the girls thought that Breguswith seemed like a gentle, somewhat timid soul, whose affable manner and sweet voice made her easy to be around. There was a quiet air of sorrow about her, for she grieved for her husband, whom she was convinced had fallen somewhere in the South.

Her little son was the first child of her marriage, and the child had only been three months old when the muster had been called. The tiny lad seldom was allowed to nurse for very long on the journey, and the poor child was often ill-tempered from hunger. All the women thought that both Breguswith and the baby looked too thin, and so they had torn off sections of their own bread and given them to her when the orcs were not looking. Elfhild had gladly given Breguswith the extra bread and meat which she had received that evening. The maid felt she did not need such a large portion and she resented the reason why the orcs had doled out so much to her. Fat rumps and big breasts, indeed! She should starve herself just to spite the orcs and the Higher Ups! But she knew that such a plan would not be wise, for she would only cause herself to suffer. Hunger subdued even the most defiant of prisoners far quicker than did whips or threats.

Then there was Goldwyn, a shapely beauty in her mid-thirties with shining golden hair and turquoise eyes. Proud and aloof, she knew that she was beautiful and, up until the time of the war, favored by fortune, for her family had been of the peasant aristocracy. She often carried herself with a haughty, almost regal, grace which befitted a noblewoman of far more gentle birth than hers.

Her youngest son had been the one who was taunted by Sergeant Glokal. Though all the captives in the troop despised the tall, scar-faced orc, perhaps she was one of the ones who hated him the most, for he had frightened her son into humiliating himself. She had three sons in all: Fritha, who was five, Frumgár, who was eight and Fródwine, the eldest at elven. They were all among the many grandchildren of Old Man Fastred, who had ridden off to war back in the spring on his old gray horse. The night of the raid, Goldwyn and her sons had been awakened by the screams of women and the harsh cries of strange, cruel voices. The orcs had dragged her and the boys from their home, and as they stood trembling upon the way, the hungry flames rose high from the houses all around, piercing the darkness with a raging blaze of hostile light.

There was one other woman, Waerburh, the wife of the butcher. A strong, brawny woman, she had often helped her husband in the shop. Like Leofgifu and Goldwyn, she was also in her thirties. She had never had children, which perhaps was a good thing, for no one, much less children, deserved to face the perils of captivity and slavery. Though she held a prominent position in the village as the butcher's wife, Elfhild and Elffled only knew her as a casual acquaintance, and had never been close friends with the woman.

As they ate their evening meal, the women in the troop told tales of sorrow and woe, recounting their losses and small triumphs against the orcs. A fierce pride flamed up in the hearts of the captives for they felt like Riders who had been sorely tried in battle and passed all tests of a true warrior. Only two days had they spent in captivity and their fiery spirits had not yet been completely cowed by the creeping, withering plague of despair.

Their bread quickly eaten and long gone, the three boys and Hunig sat together on the damp grass at a slight distance from the women. The four children tried to amuse themselves with softly spoken word games. It seemed that Fródwine was the unspoken leader of the group and had taken a liking to Hunig. Mayhap he felt protective of her, for he had no sisters of his own and she was the only little girl in the group. He seemed a good lad, though rather domineering.

Elffled smiled to herself as she watched the children, her heart aching with a bittersweet yearning. She missed her own childhood intensely, for it was a simple time of blissful peace and happiness, surrounded by the warmth and love of her family. The great evils of the world lived only in stories and she was protected from them by strong warriors and heroes, men such as her father and uncles. Each passing year was filled with endless days of wonder which seemed to last for long ages of the earth. Yet in truth they had passed all too quickly, as downy seeds of dandelions sent fluttering wildly through the air after being stirred by the slightest puff of breath. Now the days of her childhood were naught but a broken, barren plant wilting in her hand, and she lamented them greatly, feeling much older than her young age.

Goldwyn had just finished telling of the struggle which her young sons put up against the orcs when their home had been raided. When her youngest son had been seized by the orcs, the other two boys had come to his defense. Fródwine had rushed forward, striking at the raiders with his fists, while Frumgár had hurled a barrage of kitchen crockery in their direction. Both boys had kept up the struggles until the fiends had at last subdued them. All the women praised Goldwyn's sons for their acts of bravery and the boys beamed, basking in the attention.

"Oh... 'twas nothing; any Rider would have done the same," Fródwine, the eldest boy, remarked modestly, though inwardly he exulted in the praise. Hunig looked to him and his younger brothers with wide eyes filled with awe.

"Aye, they would have kept fighting if I had not pleaded for them to stop." The smile upon Goldwyn's face slowly faded as her thoughts became grim and somber. Yet she forced herself to smile once again, for she did not want to give in to despair before her sons and the other women. "I fear they are not yet men, though they think it," she forced a little laugh.

"But I am not far from manhood," protested Fródwine. "I am eleven, and I know that some of the lads who went off to battle back in the spring were barely thirteen."

Goldwyn laughed again and teased her eldest son, as though they were back at home and not being held prisoner by the orcs. Though there was no hope, still the captives tried to keep heart, until the bitter lonely night darkened and no solace could be found for their troubles. More praises were given by the women and the boys felt like heroes of old, more like knights than lads. At last the excitement began to slow and gradually a thoughtful silence descended upon the troop.

"So, Elfhild and Elffled, what brings you to our sorry lot?" Waerburh asked, breaking the silence. "Where is your mother? Was she placed in another group?"

"Their mother fought the orcs and was murdered for resisting," Leofgifu lamented sadly. "The bravery of all three is worthy of song, to be remembered for long years to come."

"Oh no!" Waerburh groaned, closing her eyes tightly and turning her head away. "Not Athelthryth! Oh, I am so sorry! This is most grievous news!"

"I regret to hear of this news," Goldwyn remarked without elaboration. She had never cared for Athelthryth, though she was sorry to hear of her death. Goldwyn considered herself far too honest a woman to give praises where they were not due or to give false eulogies for a woman whom she did not consider her friend.

Elfhild sniffed away tears and smiled forlornly. "She charged the orcs in an attempt to protect us. I was terrified at the time - both Elffled and I were," she added, looking to her sister. "We fought for our lives and tried to defend her the best that we could."

"There were at least six of them," Elffled shivered. "They just kept coming, though Mother killed two of the fiends." Now she knew how soldiers felt in the heat of battle, an unpleasant sensation for which she did not care at all.

Elfhild took in a deep breath and then sighed. Her voice wavered as she spoke. "Mother fought valiantly but there were just too many…" she faltered as her eyes began to fill with tears at the dreadful memory. Clutching her arms tightly to her chest, she shivered and rubbed her limbs as though she were cold. Trying to comfort her niece, Leofgifu rubbed her back and drew her close.

"I am sorry," Waerburh murmured, heartache heavy in her voice.

"She died bravely." Elfhild smiled through her tears, but then her expression became deadly serious. "I avenged her death, though. I flung myself on the hell-spawned fiend who murdered her, and smashed his skull in with my knife." Her fists clenched tightly, her fingers digging into her palm.

"Elfhild and Elffled, both you and your mother were so courageous!" Breguswith's sweet voice was soft, her eyes wide with awe. "I surrendered to the raiders, for struggling would have brought peril to my son's life." She gazed tenderly at the small, sleeping baby upon her lap.

"Greatly have our folk suffered at the hands of the invaders," Waerburh sighed. "Others were slain by the orcs - just as your mother - when they fought back, even little children. I heard that the orcs slew many of the old and infirm, for the murderers deemed them too feeble to make a long journey. Such wicked, cruel folk, and we find ourselves at their mercy!" She shook her head sadly and then looked to the twins. "I will not ask you anything more, for I can see that it hurts too much to talk."

Tears streaked Elfhild's cheeks and her face was ruddy and swollen. She rubbed her eyes, her fingers trailing tears to her temples. "I just wish that this war never happened and my mother was still alive," she whispered sorrowfully.

"I wish the same thing." A tear rolled down Elffled's cheek. Were her father, brother, uncle and friends dead as well? How many would she have to mourn? Her aunt? Her cousin? Elfhild? No, no, she could not dare let her thoughts stray there!

"I do not believe anything shall be as it once was," Waerburh lamented. "The world has been changed for ever, I believe, and we look now at the end of all things which we held dear."

Leofgifu looked around at the group of captives who sat near her. "We have all suffered much," she lamented, sorrowing for the evil lot of the women and children. Yet she knew she must be strong and brave for the sake of her daughter and herself. And was it not the tradition of her people always, no matter how dire the days might be, to remain firm and steadfast? Yet she felt neither strength nor valor, but instead a strong sense of ominous doom. Still, it was never good to give vent to the fears that lay submerged in the heart and in the mind, for once they were allowed to escape, they would destroy as surely as an enemy.

"Look at us!" she exclaimed, shaking her head in disgust. "We sit around as though we were thieves caught with our hands upon a clutch of stolen eggs. Let us not dwell upon our plights! We should not let our captors see us sink so low."

Hunig, who lay with the side of her head nestled upon her mother's thigh, was close to tears, but she stifled the whimper that came to her lips. "Mother," her voice trembled and her sluggish tongue stumbled over her words, "I am afraid!"

"We are all frightened, my little one." Leofgifu looked down to her daughter's face and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Hunig twisted her head so she could look up at her mother. "But I never stoled eggs in my life!"

This brought a deep chuckle to her mother's throat. "No, you never did, thankfully, and I do not think that you would find any eggs here to steal even if you wished."

The women and children could not stifle their laughter at those words. Fródwine, who sat near Hunig with his brothers and mother, snorted in amusement. "You look like an egg thief to me."

Hunig raised herself up into a sitting position and turned to glare at Fródwine. "What do you know?" she asked contemptuously. "You are just a lad!"

"Maids," he commented, as though he were a wise sage, "are flimsy things. What can they do of any use? They cannot fight. They can wield neither sword nor spear. All they do every day is sit and play with their dolls!" He made a face.

Hunig was growing angry, and as it always did when she was excited, her tongue began stumbling over her words and becoming stuck now and then. "And what do boys do, Thodwine?" she countered, mispronouncing his name. Thrusting her head and shoulders back, she gave him a burning stare. "Lads can only boast and brag, talk much too loud, get in trouble, and do naught else!" She tossed her head with a haughty shake, her hair flowing the way an angered horse twists its tail.

Fródwine rose to his feet and stood in front of her, looking down at her arrogantly as though he considered her slow and foolish. "You did not say my name correctly. Are you mocking me? My name," he declared pompously, annunciating his words firmly and clearly, "is Fród-wine!"

Hunig stood up and faced him, her hands upon her hips in a saucy manner. "You do not deserve that name, silly boy! Toadwine shall be your name. Toadwine, a toad's friend, for you are nothing but a slimy, ugly toad and a boor! The way your tongue darts in and out of your mouth, always talking, always boasting, you could use it to catch flies! At least there, you would have some good use!" Looking at him triumphantly, a smile flickering upon her lips, she folded her arms and held her head high, a contemptuous smirk upon her face.

"You are silly, Hunig," Fródwine's youngest brother proclaimed, squaring himself up for verbal battle, "very silly. My brother is not a toad."

"You are sillier than I am, Fritha!" Hunig was defiant, daring the younger boy to meet her in battle.

"Stay your temper, Fritha!" Fródwine ordered importantly. "I will handle this matter!" Then turning back to Hunig, he retaliated, "Maybe I am a toad, but you are the one who has the warts! You have them all over your hands and I daresay that next you will have a long ugly one dangling from your nose."

Hunig looked at him as though she were struck with a hammer in the middle of her forehead. "You are evil, rotten, like an apple that has gone sour in the bottom of the barrel!" she retorted. "You are vile, beastly, and definitely not a gentleman!" She hid her hands behind her back. Indeed, Fródwine's words had been true and there were warts between her fingers, one even daring to appear upon her wrist.

One day, her mother had showed her how to milk the cow by placing Hunig's small fingers on the cow's teats. She then squeezed Hunig's hands, showing her how to pull down the milk, drawing it from the sack. The gentle cow had warts covering her teats, and Hunig had caught this harmless yet unsightly malady from her. Hunig's lower lip trembled, her small face puckering up into a frown, though she tried to hold the tears at bay. Her honor had been sullied and she was dreadfully humiliated.

"Girls," Fródwine spat in disgust. "Say one word to them and their faces turn into a rushing river of tears. There is simply no understanding them. All of them have heads that are hollow like a drum, good for nothing except to make noise!"

The women, in spite of themselves, roared in laughter at this childish tournament. The children's argument had broken the feeling of tension and the women were glad of this pleasant and most welcome diversion.

"My head is not a drum!" Hunig exclaimed hotly, trying not to be outdone.

Laughing so hard that he was out of breath, Fródwine stood there, shaking in laughter, while Fritha grinned impishly and pointed at Hunig.

Frumgár, the middle brother, refusing to be left out of the fray, taunted, "Drumhead, drumhead!"

Gasping for breath, Fródwine held himself around the middle. "Maybe we should beat her," he cried when he finally stopped laughing, "and see if she makes a good drum!"

Chortling, he made a mock lung towards Hunig. Trying to evade his grasp, she screamed, "Mother!"

"Lads," Goldwyn spoke calmly and quietly, "let her be. Do not torment her so!"

"Mother, I was only jesting," Fródwine protested, his voice defensive. Grinning at the little girl, he told her, "I shall make amends." With that, he bowed to her, a graceful, sweeping bow, causing her to glare at him all the more.

"She still has warts," Fritha muttered under his breath, an innocent smile on his face.

"Mother!" Hunig howled.

Lolling about their campfire, the orcs had been enjoying their orc draught when the cheerful banter among the children began to vex them. Getting to his feet, the sergeant swaggered over to the group of captives and snarled at them. "Keep your yapping traps shut! You will drive us all mad with your jabbering! If I hear one more loud noise from this quarter of the camp, the offenders shall be punished. Mark my word!" he threatened, looking down at the little group and shaking his fist at them. "Not another peep out of you! Go to sleep all of you, you gaggle of squawking geese and your brood!" He gave them a disdainful growl and bared his teeth. Then he turned away and walked back to the radiating glow of the orcs' campfire.

More out of fear of punishment than reluctant obedience, the captives followed the sergeant's orders. With talk forbidden, the women and children had little to distract themselves from their woes, and they keenly felt the weariness of the day's march. Limbs were stiff and aching and many of the captives willingly sought relief in sleep.

In the stillness of the night, fear, sorrow and despair became living, breathing things, like shadow-creatures which lurked about, seeking their prey among those without hope. Tears welled up in Elfhild and Elffled's eyes, and they quietly wept until their eyes became too heavy and filled with sand to stay open any longer. Then they slept the deep and dreamless slumber of the weary upon this desolate field so far from home.

Far behind them now were the green fields through which they had once ran, the tall grasses parting before their bodies like the waters of cool, rushing streams about calloused and dirty feet. When the weather was warm, the sisters would often cast their clothes aside in messy piles upon a grassy bank and bathe and swim with their family in deep streams, their unclad flesh warmed by the sun and cooled by the water. Then after they had dried off and thrown their crumpled dresses back over their heads, the two sisters would climb up a high hill and look at the endless green plains spreading out before them. When they were younger, Elfhild and Elffled imagined they were queens and this kingdom of beauty was theirs to rule. However, now all the places and paths that were so dear to their hearts were far away to the west.

Above the clouds, the icy beauty of the stars which Varda had placed in the sky long ago shone brightly, though their light was veiled. Those far away who still dwelt in safety and freedom had received tidings of the war and were afraid. They murmured a prayer of protection but the emerging stars only looked down at them, cold in their high seats in the heavens, immovable, unimpassioned, uncaring. Still the Elves prayed and sought out with their sharp eyes the Valacirca, the Sickle of Doom.


	13. The Men of Darkness

Chapter Written by Angmar

Over the next few days, the orcs continued to drive the captives through the Sunland, though little light shown now upon the sad plains of Anórien. The captives were almost glad of the shadowy sky, for their eyes could not behold the full horror of the destruction laid to a land once fair. The vast empty reaches spread out all around them, desolate, uninhabited now, its people long fled or taken into captivity. On both sides of the Road here and there beyond wide expanses of trampled, ailing fields were the charred ruins of burnt villages.

The captives felt lost, homeless wayfarers, vagabonds, in the spreading openness of the plain. The sky above them was silent, the birds long fled to lands where the sun still shone. Neither hawk nor falcon cried in their soaring flight in the skies above or plunged down to pinion unwary prey in fierce talons. Sometimes the barely discernible mountains towards the south suddenly reared their hoar-crowned craggy heads out of the gloom and gazed down on the plains below with cold, rebuking stares. The snarls, grunts and curses of the orcs were almost welcome sounds in the overwhelming silence.

Then a shrieking cry would rent the stillness of the dead air as the demons of the sky screamed their strange calls. They would shoot out of the east and then out of the west, sometimes howling and shrieking, other times silent as a creeping plague of death, speeding in their fury like bolts of lightning, the darkness beneath them deepening at their coming and lessening in their wake. The captives knew not what the winged shadows were and the very thoughts of the flying demons filled them with cold, stark terror.

Ten days had passed since the village of Grenefeld had been raided and now it was the third day of June, but still the captives tramped the long journey to a destination unbeknownst to them. The miles had lengthened as they plodded on, fear and sorrow their constant companions. Occasionally a supply train, drawn by many yoked oxen, would rumble by, the wheels of the wagons creaking and groaning, bearing their great loads of weapons and supplies. Now and then a cavalry patrol would trot jauntily by with a great jangling of curb bit chains, creaking of saddle leather and clinking of harness trappings, beating out a merry rhythm against a background of somber skies and silence. Sometimes when the train of captives was near the road, the cavalrymen would call out a bawdy greeting, which the captives ignored with a stiff-necked, disdainful toss of the head.

The endless marching for the day was over and at last the captives could eat and rest for the night. Children complained about sore feet and aching legs that had been encouraged to move ever onward by the persuasive voice of the whip. Weary arms that had clutched fretting, colicky babes all day longed for a respite from the strain. Now, at last, when it seemed that will or mind could no longer force another step forward, the command had come to halt.

The captives were amazed at the energy the orcs always displayed, for they never seemed to weary, no matter how many miles had been marched. While the night provided an end to the long day's ceaseless plodding and a brief succoring oblivion for the captives, the ebony cloak of evening was a time of revelry for the orcs. Dusk was now falling and some feeble light yet remained. The orc captains had set a circling protection of pickets around the perimeter of the camp. Although the only enemies were over a hundred miles away, still military order and alertness would be maintained and no captives could be allowed to escape.

The wild strawberries were just bursting into ripeness and here and there one blushed a full red face and hid beneath the leaves. The fruits, though, were few and not very big, for the enveloping cloud of darkness had stunted their growth. Many of those that had triumphed in the struggle to live and grow had been crushed under foot. Still here and there a few grew where the light was better.

The orc pizurk knelt down and picked one, looking at it as he held it briefly between his meaty thumb and forefinger. Though the explosion of its taste lingered but a brief instant, the pizurk relished the sweet taste of the berry. The pizurk gulped the berry and its scant juice quickly down his throat. He stood up and looked about, hoping to find more. Instead he saw three horsemen riding across the dried, pale grassland that stretched between his sentry post and the small cavalry camp that had just been set up about half a mile across the road.

The pizurk pondered to himself, "What kind of trouble could this foretell? Officers never mean us well! They either have some bloody work for us to do or they want to criticize and complain!" The pizurk made a motion with his hand, alerting the next sentry back that someone was approaching.

News of the three cavalrymen was quickly relayed back to the captain, who grumbled at hearing of the two officers and their orderly. He had been planning to settle down for the evening with a skin of fiery draught and was in no mood to contend with demanding Easterling officers.

"Lads," he barked, rising to his feet, "make lively now! Our betters have come to see us."

The camp was soon astir with orcs checking their gear, setting their armor to rights and preparing themselves for what they felt would be something unpleasant.

By the time the two Easterling cavalrymen reined in their horses, the orc captain had called the lads under his command to attention, and they saluted the officers smartly. After returning the salute, one of the two men, the taller of the two, hailed them.

"Good evening, men," the officer said, trying to make his voice sound civil. "I am Captain Kourosh of the Second Regiment, Third Brigade, Khandrim Cavalry. My comrade here," he nodded towards the shorter man beside him, "is Sergeant Daungha of the First Company. The lad with us is Tooraj, my horse holder. Just show him where we may put our horses, and we shall have a look about your camp."

The orc captain hoped to mask his displeasure at what he considered the intrusion of the two officers. He opened his mouth slightly, exposing his fangs, and though the orc captain considered it a smile, it appeared more a grimace of great pain than it did a jovial expression.

"Sirs," he said respectfully, his voice ingratiating as much as an orcish voice can be, "all will be done as you have asked. Would you like for me to show you about?"

"No," Captain Kourosh said as he dismounted his horse and turned the reins over to an already dismounted Tooraj. "That will be quite unnecessary. We can find our way about surely enough."

"Aye, captain," said Sergeant Daungha as he dismounted and handed his reins to Tooraj. "A stroll about the camp will be relaxing after a day's ride in the saddle."

"As you will, sir," the orc said in compliance. The two officers watched as Tooraj led their mounts to the place the orc captain had specified.

Captain Kourosh disliked orcs, though he felt pity for them, and what he considered their "plight." He had always compared them to the strange simian creatures his grandfather told him about in tales when Kourosh had been a lad. His grandfather had acted out the tales about the apes that were reputed to live in the far south of Harad. His grandfather had depicted them as great, monstrous black creatures with long, dangling arms who rolled their eyes and lolled their tongues about.

Kourosh had jumped back in feigned terror as his grandfather had lunged towards him in mock battle. His grandfather had hunched his shoulders, bending far over and swinging his arms back and forth. Though he would never admit it, Kourosh had been frightened by his grandfather's grunting and snarling. Then when his grandfather had bellowed out the most hideous approximation of an orc battle cry that young Kourosh ever could imagine, his grandfather wrestled him to the floor. Then his grandfather had held the lad down with one foot while he beat his fists upon his chest, throwing back his head and bellowing an orc victory chant.

Captain Kourosh could not help but consider the orcs as feeble-minded brutes, more akin to the apes of the far South, but he had taken great pains never to reveal that to anyone. Kourosh, for all his military demeanor, was a thoughtful man who liked to look at all sides of a matter and often held counsel only with himself.

He had spent twenty years in the cavalry of Khand, and when his regiment had been dispatched to go fight in Gondor, he had gone to do his duty, reluctantly leaving his home and his family. A seasoned trooper, lean of face and body, his muscles hardened from long hours on the trail, he appeared to all as harsh man, homely and rustic. He had never prided himself upon his looks anyway and felt more elation at a good report from a superior officer than he did at the shy glance of a maid. Yet underneath the strict exterior, he had the soul of a poet and the mind of a philosopher.

His sergeant Daungha, a younger man, relished war for the sake of war and the booty that it brought. "Death to the enemy and plunder of their lands," was his watchword. Brash, impetuous, daring and reckless at times, he seldom did anything in moderation, and often fell under the censure of military discipline. Ardent and passionate in all his ways, the hot blood racing through his veins, he considered himself quite the dashing, bold soldier, lover of women and the breaker of hearts, the cause of many a young maiden's tears.

The uniforms of both men bore evidence of the dust of the trail. Though they had shaken out their cloaks before they had left their camp, still they had not rid their apparel of either its smell or its grime.

Captain Kourosh had not come to the camp of the captives for idle reasons. He had received a letter from his wife that their second child was due in the winter and they would have need of a slave woman to tend the child. Perchance he could find a likely nurse among these slaves for that task? If so, he would send word to his agent in Nurn to be on the lookout for her at the slave auctions.

Sergeant Daungha was restless, tired of the long, endless cavalry patrols. He yearned for leave in a city and the bustling excitement of throngs of people. To him, the desolation of the West was stifling. Wrapped in his blankets off to the side of the road at night, he had fondled himself as he beheld visions of wenches with dark kohl-rimmed eyes who danced seductively before him. What comforts did a soldier have upon the trail if it were not for such fantasies?

Though the two men, the captain and the sergeant, were mismatched in personality, the captain being older and content with his wife and two concubines, the sergeant still had no woman to call his own. He always thirsted for the thrill of a new conquest, whether in a dimly lit tavern or in a vanquished city.

Sergeant Daungha knew, however, the orders that had been laid down so explicitly and drummed into the officers until they knew them forwards and backwards: "No spoiling of the captives. All slaves are to be preserved intact except for the usual wear and tear of this commodity by travel or disease. No officer or man is allowed to do aught else than restrain female slaves or their issue by use of threat and intimidation, and no serious bodily injuries may be inflicted upon those in your care. No slaves, either male or female, can be seduced or ravished, nor is it permitted to force them to service any officer or man by use of their mouths or hands. All offenders guilty of such offenses will face the most severe of punishments: castration and enforced servitude in the slave labor camps."

Sergeant Daungha had memorized the military directives and could recite them word by word. Though he felt sorely tempted at times to break them, the restraining threat of the punishment was far too overwhelming and when considered, it was far too frightening to contemplate. Sergeant Daungha remembered the old days before the Directives had come into place and he bristled under their tight control.

Daungha's contemplation of military directives was broken by Captain Kourosh's soft-spoken words. "Let us walk about, shall we? I have never seen a slave camp before and I must admit I am curious."

The sergeant, eager to impress his captain, said, his voice louder, taking on the air of one who knows, "I have seen several camps where defeated warriors were housed. Of course, that sort is always barbaric and crude, uncivilized, wild Rohirrim and Gondorians, folk of that ilk. Every means of restraint must be used upon those brutes and never does one of them ever willingly submit to the superior races. They prefer death instead!"

"Sergeant," the captain said, looking at him, "I suggest that we discuss this in our own tongue." Though the captain's words were said pleasantly, they were more of a command than a suggestion.

"I would daresay they consider us as barbaric and savage as we consider them," the Captain Kourosh continued in their own tongue. "None of us would ever submit to defeat and servitude, most preferring instead an honorable death and cast themselves upon their own swords."

"Captain Kourosh, what do you mean? We are as barbaric and savage as our foes?" Sergeant Daungha disagreed in the same language.

"Are we not all savages, covered only by a slight cloak of civilization? We look across a battle line and call the other 'savage' whilst at the same time the enemy looks across at us and says, 'Barbarians!' Under the skin we are all the same. The only thing that separates us is political philosophy."

Though he respected him as an officer, Sergeant Daungha was in dismay oft times at his captain's words, and he felt discomfited in those times. "Captain, you and I talk of bitter things, unpleasant to the ears. This evening should be spent in marveling at the treasures the lads have brought us from the West! Let us look upon the booty," the sergeant encouraged, a look of anticipation upon his features.

"From what I have seen so far at a distance, the booty is an humble one, not a hoard of treasure. I cannot say that a camp of plain-faced Rohirric wenches and their children, tired and with wan faces, quite compares to one of the pleasure houses of the East," the captain said, a wry grin on his face. The captain had no doubt what the Daungha desired. "You know, sergeant, without my repeating of the Directives, that we cannot do more than admire them with our eyes and think about the future," as he silently mused, always the fatalist, "if there is one."

The sergeant, his voice dropping lower, said, "Though I would wish no one else to hear this but you, I think the Directives are most unfair. It is my considered opinion that what a man has won by the sword is his to take and enjoy! Of course, his superiors are entitled to their share, but the men who fought for the spoil should have first rights in their taking. If I could, I would do as I will and have no regrets."

The captain had heard this argument from the sergeant many times before, and though at first he had been eager to put up another argument against him, he found that over the months the subject became wearisome. "The sergeant's words border on mutiny," he thought, "and cannot be allowed to go unchallenged."

"Sergeant, do you now question our superiors? Are you so bold and brash a man to dare do that?" he said impatiently. "The minds of our Rulers are far superior to our own. I find Their way makes perfect sense, its logic irrefutable, for without order, there is only chaos, hunger, famine and want. Be satisfied, sergeant, in what They allow you to have and do not seek to rise to heights that you can never attain. Your philosophy is faulty, your conclusions unbased! Such debate would be better left to private talk, perhaps over cups of wine, certainly not in the midst of a camp where the troops can hear your words." The look on the captain's face was one of warning.

The subject began to make Sergeant Daungha uncomfortable. Perhaps it was not the topic itself, but the firm clenching of the jaw and the resolute look that the captain always maintained when discussing this matter.

"Sometimes we can be forgiven, can we not, when after the heat of battle is spent, we enjoy some small measure of reward that our bloody swords have earned?" asked the sergeant, still unrepentant. "You have done it yourself, Captain Kourosh, after the last battle of the uprising a few years back. That night in the city after the carnage was over, we shared the same wine, the same bed and the same women! The next morning after we had both sated ourselves in pleasure, you took two of them back as your concubines. There were no reprimands upon any of us for what we had done."

The captain chuckled softly, experiencing that night over again. "And the wenches have always proved satisfactory and are most delightful and wanton in bed."

The captain's mind began wandering to these pleasing thoughts but he knew he must not let them tarry, for they had spent too much time in futile debate. He paused, leaving his contemplate of past nights of hot lust. "But, sergeant, that was excused to us, for it was an fierce battle and our bloodlust was unappeased," he said, his word pattern turning somber and monotonous as he became what he was now, an officer in command.

Sergeant Daungha folded had folded his arms as he listened to the captain. "That was a good battle," he said, reminiscing, oblivious to the captain's change in mood, "and the celebration afterwards was most memorable!

The captain looked at him sternly. "The Masters forgave us for enjoying the spoil then because we had just been in battle and our passions were high. This, though," the captain said, looking about the camp, "is another matter entirely. We are not standing in the middle of a conquered city, our uniforms soaked in blood and our swords dripping gore. The battle is far away now and these maids and dames are recognized as spoils of war under the jurisdiction and protection of the army. They will all be kept intact and inviolate and we will follow orders. Their straw-colored hair, fair skin and blue eyes are prized above all other wenches in the lands where their likeness is unknown."

Sergeant Daungha added, not quite willing to give up the debate, "You are correct, captain; I am in the wrong. This is no place to discuss matters of internal concern. I trust that you will not repeat anything that I have said. Though sometimes we disagree, you would not begrudge a friend careless words spoken after long hours upon the trail. It has been a long time since I have been on leave and have not known the pleasures of a woman's caresses for a very long time."

"It has been a long time for me, maybe longer than you," the captain said quietly.

"Captain, you know that I am as loyal as any, but I cannot help feeling that the slave flesh, when it is available, should be provided to any man of valor. We differ not in philosophy but merely in its application," the sergeant said testily.

"Do you wish to stand here all night and discuss philosophy or do you wish to appraise the slaves that are secured here?" asked the captain. "You will soon find philosophy becomes a burdensome pursuit."

The sergeant knew that the captain had dismissed the subject when he turned from him. The sergeant looked at the back of Captain Kourosh as he walked ahead of the other towards a group of captives sitting a short distance away. Sergeant Daungha soon caught up with him, but as he looked about him, he saw that the captain was talking to a group of older women and mothers with babes and children.

Breguswith shuddered as she looked up at the two Easterlings. She held her babe in her arms as he slept fitfully. She sat weeping softly, her face a mask of sorrow.

"Good dame," Captain Kourosh said in the Common Speech as he looked down at her. "Is your child ailing?"

"Aye, sir," Breguswith replied. "He was never a healthy child, always weak from birth."

Kourosh's eyes softened as he felt sympathy for the woman. He thought with a fearful twinge, "What if this were my wife and I were slain and no longer could protect her?"

"Are you given enough to eat, or should I speak to these louts who guard you? By my word, they will give you extra food," he said, his voice growing angry. Sergeant Daungha looked at him in dismay but said nothing.

"Aye, they feed me enough, I suppose, as much as they are able, but," she said as her voice fell lower and she shared a confidence, "the other women give me some of their provender. But, sir, this is no life for a babe, this constant movement and endless walking. I fear that he will not survive this journey."

"Good dame, what is your name?" he asked.

The question made her uneasy and she did not wish to tell him, nor did she wish to feel his ire if she refused.

"Breguswith, sir."

"I will see that you have more to eat, madam," said the soft-voiced Easterling.

"Sir, thank you, but the child seems to be growing weaker every day, and I fear that the strain of travel will cause my milk to dry up."

"I am sorry," he said, "and though it does not matter, I reckon, my name is Captain Kourosh of the Second Regiment, Third Brigade, Khandrim Cavalry. If ever I may aid you, I will." He thought to himself, "Though I sometimes think that I will soon aid no one. My forebodings tell me I shall not return alive from these lands so far from home."

Sergeant Daungha had grown weary of the discourse and had wandered away from the captain and what he considered the captain's soft, weak approach to life. Still Captain Kourosh was held in great respect by his men. Even Sergeant Daungha marveled at the total ruthlessness that the captain had displayed when he had ordered surrendering foemen to be slain, and had turned his own blade upon them, relishing their deaths as he had turned into a frenzied butcher of the enemy.

"The captain is a complicated sort," Daungha had mused.

The Easterling captain had left Breguswith and was now talking to Goldwyn and her three sons. The sergeant glanced back at him and he saw a smile on the captain's bearded face when he talked to the three boys. "The captain is full of good will tonight," thought Sergeant Daungha, "and I do realize that he misses his young son just now three years of age. I suppose that is what married life does and the proud captain is now quite the domesticated man," he chuckled to himself. He liked the captain and considered him an outstanding officer but still he made a dull companion for young blood.

The sergeant preferred something more lively and sought out the young maids, for it had been long since he had been with a woman, and he wished to hear pleasant, lilting voices and behold feminine smiles not found on the faces of his grizzled comrades in arms.

Elfhild and Elffled this evening sat a small distance away from their troop of ten. They had been talking quietly together in their own language and were laughing at fond remembrances of their hound, Brúwann. The brown and white hound had often gone to sleep near the brazier on winter nights and began to yelp, his legs thrashing wildly. The Eadbaldings had often wondered about what the dog dreamt. Perhaps when he had just yelped, he had been playing a game of chase with Eadfrid, and then when he howled and thrashed his legs, mayhaps he was in hot pursuit of a coney across wide, broad fields.

The two maidens' shared story of peaceful life at home was suddenly broken by the realization that a figure was looming above them and staring down at them. They looked up at the form of a tawny, bearded young Easterling man and froze. An imposing new force had just invaded their small, innocent world - the Men of Darkness.

* * *

Pizurk - A private in the Mordor Army.


	14. Three Honeyed Kisses

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

He stood there, looking down at them, a smile on his tawny face. "Broshan," he said in a voice thick with the accent of the East. "Does all of the land of Rohan possess such beauty as I see before me?" His tongue darted out of his mouth and slowly licked across his dry lips. Not giving them time to reply, he continued, "Let me introduce myself. I am Sergeant Daungha of the Khandrim Cavalry. I see that your sire has been blessed with two of you, and you seem exactly alike. What are your names, maidens of the Horse Lords, and how may I tell you apart so I will know which one of you it is that favors me first?"

Elfhild and Elffled warily looked up at the Easterling, appraising him carefully, as though they had encountered a strange, new creature and were trying to determine if it meant them good or ill. Indeed, this was the first time that they had ever seen a man of the enemy at so close a distance, and they had heard that such men were cruel and wicked.

The two girls stared at the sergeant. His speech was heavily accented, and sometimes it was difficult for them to fathom his words. His face was swathed in shadow, making his tawny skin appear much darker than it was in truth. They had been able to discern little of the soldiers they saw passing on the Road when they had first been captured, for the faces of those men were oft concealed beneath helms or hidden behind veiled headdresses. The twins wondered why the men of the East and South had such dark skin. Was it because their hearts were black and this evil radiated out from them, tainting their flesh? The sisters could only speculate in their innocence of the world.

"Hail Sergeant Daungha," Elfhild said at last, her voice calm and even, slightly friendly but not overly so. The flattering words of an enemy did not impress her, and she much preferred compliments from folk of her own race. She would hold her judgment upon this man, though, until he proved himself to be either fair or foul.

"Good evening, sir," Elffled shyly greeted, looking up at the sergeant. His presence made her nervous and she hoped he would go away.

"Aye, sir, your eyes do not deceive you in this gloomy reek. Indeed, we are twins." Elfhild smiled slightly. "However, I fear there is no way to tell us apart, and oft this is a source of confusion for those who do not know us well. If it were brighter, then, perhaps, you could discern between us by our dress."

Elfhild paused. The man wanted to know her name. She remembered her foolishness before the kingly rider, and how her aunt had rebuked her greatly for it. But yet neither she nor her sister had done anything to provoke this man's attentions, and it was not their fault that he wished to speak with them. Mayhap he was just being friendly, or had come to taunt them. They would see his true intent soon enough, she guessed.

"Elfhild daughter of Eadbald is my name and this," she turned to her side, "is my sister Elffled."

Elffled nodded and gave a quick, reluctant, polite smile. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." The words were spoken stiffly, and not meant at all. How could she be friendly to a man of the enemy? She would be civil and naught else.

"Beautiful maidens Elfhild and Elffled, I doubt that you truly mean your words. Why would you be pleased to see me? No need to be coy." He stood above the two sisters, stroking his oiled beard as he looked down at them.

Elffled glanced at the ground, her cheeks warm. Indeed, she was not pleased to see the man, but she did not want to appear completely rude. Years of being taught always to be ladylike and well-mannered prevented such an infraction of the unspoken rules of polite and acceptable behavior.

"Forgive me, sir," she replied quietly. "I meant no discourtesy. It is just that I have never talked to a man of the East before." She forced herself to smile politely, her cheeks aching with the strain.

"Aye," nodded Elfhild, feeling awkward. "Only orcs have we spoken with so far in our... travels." She almost choked on her ill choice of words; she sounded more like she was tramping across the countryside seeking adventure instead of being led away into slavery.

"They are nothing more than provincial peasants, daughters of herdsmen," Sergeant Daungha thought to himself. "I wonder if they both are feeble-minded and dull-witted. It is difficult for me to make out their Common Speech, for their tongues slander it, slurring their words almost beyond discerning. Fair and comely on the outside, but nothing of any quality here. Serving maids in the house of one of their lords, most likely, and like the slave girls of my land, always so wanton and easily led! These two seem more than willing to follow without much coaxing. Perhaps I underestimate them, though," he reflected, entertaining thoughts of where he would like to lead them.

"Stand so that I may see you both more clearly," his words rolled out languorously. "I will not require you to bow before me, for you are as yet ignorant of such matters and are untrained in the way that slaves should behave. You are as all new slaves, stiff-necked and defiant."

Even though neither wench had the slightest idea of what he was talking about and were defenseless and ignorant, still Sergeant Daungha enjoyed this baiting. If they were in his house, he would soon teach them that a master's word was law!

The two sisters were taken aback by the man's words. These past ten days the captives had been called many things which both offended their dignity and challenged their honor, but always the word "slave" fell upon their ears like a mighty hammer striking an anvil with heavy blows. It was the stark realization of their fate wrapped up in one word, a solemn declaration of unrelenting finality, beating down upon the heart and senses and showing no mercy.

Elfhild and Elffled exchanged frightened looks and then quickly rose to their feet.

"My apologies, sir. We were not born slaves, as you know," Elfhild spoke cautiously, trying to keep her voice even. Yet there was a twinge of bitterness in her speech, as though the taste of the word "slave" was loathsome to her tongue.

"We do not know the customs or ways of your land either," Elffled admitted truthfully. Hopefully the man would understand that and neither she nor her sister would be punished for some wrongdoing which they had inadvertently committed.

The faint glow of the western sun touched the faces of the two sisters. "They are very comely," the sergeant mused to himself, "but I have seen far more beautiful maidens in my own land. Though many would think they are fair, they seem more to me to be as exotic as snow on distant mountains and just as cold. Their bodies, though, are shaped most admirably, their breasts full and their hips ample. How I would like to see that pale skin stripped of its clothing and lying naked on a couch before me!" the sergeant thought as he licked his lips again. He had been on the trail far too long.

"You never thought you would be a slave, did you?" the sergeant asked arrogantly. "Perhaps in time you will come to like it." The corners of his lips turned up in a scornful smile.

"Nay, sir, we did not," Elfhild replied, her voice cold. "I highly doubt we will ever enjoy being slaves." Her fists clenched involuntarily and she gritted her teeth. Ah, so the Easterling came to mock and to taunt. How long would this man continue to vex them?

"There is no point in belaboring your present condition. Slave you are now, and slave you will forever be! I will neither debate nor discuss with you why you are slaves, other than that to state the obvious: your men were too weak or cowardly to protect you, and thus your fate is left in our hands. It is the way of life and no changing of it," he said, reciting a favorite phrase of his, as though it were some sacred writ.

"That is not true!" Elfhild protested vehemently. "The men of Rohan are neither weak nor craven, but merely less in number than the endless hordes of your land."

"Saucy little slave girl!" the sergeant exclaimed. "I am not interested in the strawheads of your land, for needless to say, I shall meet them in battle soon enough. I do not wish to bring any more despair to you. I tell both of you this as a man who acknowledges the philosophy of reality and all that incurs. The land of Rohan cannot withstand the might of the Great Lord, the High Holy One, the Righteous Glory! But," he said, attempting to sound more persuasive, "maidens such as you should not wish to discuss either philosophy or politics but something far more basic than that."

"And what is that, sir?" Elfhild asked hotly, not thinking upon the sergeant's words or upon her own, for she was always the more bold and impetuous of the sisters. Elffled glared at the sergeant, but held her tongue.

"The women of Rohan are subservient to their lords, yielding to them in all matters, are they not?" Sergeant Daungha asked, his words sounding strangely oily to Elfhild.

"Well, yes," Elfhild admitted, "I suppose. But women in Rohan are valued highly."

"Aye," Elffled nodded, eying the Easterling suspiciously, "very much so."

"In my land, among the people of my tribe, women are more valued for the pleasure they can bring to their lords, and for naught else do they hold worth. Those who are too ugly or old for that are worth nothing other than to cook, clean, carry loads, work in the fields, and herd flocks," the sergeant stated.

"That is not the way it is in the Mark," Elfhild declared haughtily. "The women in our land are honored and respected, held in high reverence and awe. Any Rider would bravely defend a woman - no matter how old or how young - with his very life and begrudge not his deeds."

"Our men are chivalrous, noble and honorable, sworn to protect women and avenge their honor," Elffled added, wishing that they had a few Riders of the Mark to protect them now.

"You are captured wenches of the enemy. The lives of you and the rest of your women were spared only because you are young, your faces are not too unpleasant, and you will fulfill the use for which you were created: to serve your conquerors!" he exclaimed emphatically, as though he were stating another of his sacred writs.

"Proud and haughty little vixens, both of them, but oh, they are lush," the sergeant thought, "and as ripe for the taking as sweet flavored fruits! How I would like to taste them both!" Gone were the thoughts of philosophy and politics. Urges far less refined and more primitive worked in Sergeant Daungha's mind. Already he felt a tingle in his loins at images most inviting. "Sweet, sweet, sweet," he thought, "just a taste, just a sampling of the spoils, confections of sensuous delight."

"Forced to serve our conquerors we might be, but we were not created solely for that purpose," Elfhild retaliated, her heart beating faster at the thrill of verbal battle. Yet she also was keenly aware of the danger which she was in, and her mind screamed warnings for her to stop talking. But she had always been brash and foolhardy, and ever eager to state her mind.

Elffled eagerly came to Elfhild's aid, daring herself to speak as bravely as her sister had to this man of the enemy. "Aye, though any land may fare poorly in war, still no race of Men was ever born merely to serve another, and definitely not that of the Eorlingas!"

"If you belonged to me, my concubines, slaves to serve me when I was needful, your lips would be put to far better purposes than they are in useless talk." Sergeant Daungha had difficulty understanding what the two maidens were saying, and their Common Speech, heavily laden with an Eastfold accent, perturbed him. But their defiance excited him.

"I could tame them," he thought with exhilaration, "force their spirited wills to submit to me. Sweet interludes of warm flesh, silken thighs parting at the touch of knee," the sergeant thought to himself. "Foolish military directives to keep us from claiming what is ours! Peasants though they may be, their souls burn with a fire that would be put to better use on my couch."

His own thoughts inflamed him. With the nearness of the two maidens, he felt the excitement course through his veins and his heart beat rapidly. Too many nights without release had stretched Sergeant Daungha's mind and body like a taut rope. He felt the moisture exuding from his armpits increasing and clinging to his tunic beneath his mail. The feeling was a maddening one, making him feel sticky, his heavy livery clotting with the wetness. Sweat eddied on his forehead.

He took a step forward towards the sister which he perceived as the weaker - the younger, demure Elffled. But what did it matter? One would be as good as the other.

"Elffled, you are comely, and though your words are difficult to understand, you say them with lips of honey. Elffled... Elffled..."

He stepped even closer to her. She stood there, a doe startled in the forest, trembling. Suddenly his hand slid around her waist as the other hand grabbed her loose hair and quickly wrapped it around his fist. He jerked her close to him and after tilting his head, he forced a kiss upon her unwilling lips. He gripped her hair tightly, roughly twisting it. Pushing her face to his mouth, his lips moved upon hers. He smelled of soured sweat and horse mingled with the perfumed oil upon his beard.

How she trembled against him, her heart beating rapidly, virginal purity yearning to be despoiled, honeyed lips so moist and tender. She filled him with passion and he desired her greatly. "Directives! Fruit that is denied! Directives be damned!"

"Leave my sister alone!" Elfhild cried in dismay.

"Hush, maiden, I do not know what you are saying, but your turn will come next," he hissed as his lips tore from Elffled for a moment. Then he was back upon her, his fingers digging into her hair, holding her securely, his other hand caressing her flesh in ways it had never been touched before. His tongue savored her lips and then demanded entry into her mouth. When she set her lips firm, refusing, he twisted her hair until she gasped in pain. Then he plunged his tongue into the sweet depths, delving the soft cavern, his tongue licking over hers, their saliva mingling.

Elffled struggled against the sergeant, but his strong muscles held her in a grip of no escape as he clenched her hair painfully. His beard scraped against her face, the perfumed oil smearing across her skin. Her protests were muffled by his lips, a force so dreadfully firm yet soft and moist. And his tongue into her mouth, licking over hers slowly, was a new and unpleasant sensation, and she felt ill with revulsion. Recoiling, she drew her tongue back, but he pressed his lips against her tighter and chased her tongue with his own, prodding and thrusting as though it were a sword wielded in a warrior's hand. Again she tried to evade him by flattening her tongue to the roof of her mouth, but he licked beneath it, tickling her sensitive skin with vibrating tingles. She whimpered, the sound being lost in the echoless recesses of his mouth and throat.

She pushed her hands against his chest and arched her neck back as does a skittish horse, but she could not free herself from his grasp. Twisting and writhing, she tried to avoid his free hand which so wantonly and intimately sought to touch the gentle curves of her body. A battle was waging in her mouth, for she now tried to use her own tongue to push his away, but her thrusts were to no avail. He pounced and, taking her by surprise, pinned her tongue down to the bottom of her mouth, and holding it there firmly, he licked over it again, caressing and teasing his soft and sweet foe. She gasped, drawing the breath from his chest, and the feeling frightened her. Moaning in terror, she felt momentarily faint, her eyelids fluttering.

Fighting the sudden feeling of weakness, Elffled renewed her struggles against the sergeant's grasp but his grip only grew firmer. Now the tip of his tongue was here, then there, darting back and forth, moving so fast she could barely comprehend what was happening or where her unwelcome assailant was attacking. His scent filled her nostrils, a reek of strong sweat, fragrant oil and the deep odor of horse. There was also something else, a strong musky scent that she could not recognize. Yet her primal instincts sensed what the new aroma was and she recoiled even more, trembling, the tears streaming down her face. Her heart pounded wildly and she whimpered again, the soft noise being caught in the sergeant's mouth. The sounds of her sister's angry protests were all around her, but her terrified mind only vaguely acknowledged the shrill cries.

The orcs looked from the circle of their campfire and laughed, all envying Sergeant Daungha for so boldly taking the girl in his arms. Most wished it were they who were ravishing her mouth and fondling her body. But this was a matter for the officers and the orcs would never dare intrude there.

"Sweet taste of clover honey stolen from the hive. Nay, the taste is apricot! The first blush of maidenhood, delicate, appealing in innocence, but so willing to trade it for pleasurable wisdom! Just an hour with this one, no, less," he told himself, "and the maid would know she had been mastered, and the next time she would be begging to be filled again!" The act was first thought and then consummated in his mind.

Elffled's thoughts were wild and frantic. Would the man try to rape her, right there, before all the captives, the orcs and the other two Easterlings? She felt faint again and fought the urge to slump limply against the sergeant's chest. If this were the life of a slave, she would rather be dead! Why could she not have died as her mother did, honorably, in the fight for her home? Then her unlucky life would have ended and she would never have to suffer the disgrace and shame of being ravished again and again by the evil men of the Nameless Land.

"Though her mind and speech are slow and stupid, her body is not. She eagerly responds to me," he exulted, misreading her in his vanity. "She hungers for my touch almost as much as I do hers. Perhaps the other sister is as eager as she! What I could do with these two if I had them both together pleasuring me in my bed!"

His hand groped, delving wonders hidden beneath her dress. As he found one of her breasts and cupped his hand about it, he almost staggered with the weakness he suddenly felt in his legs. Taken off guard, Elffled gasped again, almost coughing on the breath that she pulled from the sergeant's throat. His touch was vile and repulsive to her flesh and she tried to shrink away, but her struggles and whimpered protests were for naught.

"Directives? Curse the Directives! Surely there will be no punishment for a few kisses and touching? How she wants me," the sergeant gloated, seeing her struggles as nothing more than the expected false protests of a maid who was willing to give all while still clinging to the trappings of offended modesty. Her sister? What importance were her complaints! Perhaps the other golden-haired maiden desired his caresses, maybe even more than her sister, and she was jealous that he was not kissing her!

At last the sergeant broke the long, slow kiss as he breathed heavily, his hand still clasped about Elffled's hair, the golden strands entangled. Her mouth so recently relinquished, his lips felt cold where their heat had burnt. He groaned in frustration and felt a deep aching in his loins.

Elffled gasped for breath and her lips felt sore from the two unwanted and unwelcomed kisses. The man's saliva lingered in her mouth, bubbly spittle oozed out of the corners of her lips, and she longed to spit and maybe to retch. Her heart was pounding and all of her limbs were trembling. Her wide eyes looked up to the man's lust-filled face and she tried to find her voice to plead or to curse, but all that came out was a tiny squeak.

His lips sought Elffled's again, more urgently this time. His mouth clashed against hers, the unexpected impact causing their teeth to meet and her upper lip to become caught in between. She tasted blood and her stomach churned at the sharp, burning savor of iron. Again her mouth was raped by the sergeant's tongue and she weakly tried to evade his intrusive thrusts.

He tightened his hold on Elffled's hair and wrapped his fingers in its silk. His left leg crooked behind her calf, the strong muscles of his legs trapping her. He moaned as a groping hand slid down to the cleft of her womanhood, and he moved his fingers against the cloaked flesh. His skin was flushed, hot with desire, and he only wanted to pull her down to the ground and have her right there. But Directives, always Directives.

Elffled's body went rigid, frozen in place, the breath of air that she involuntarily sucked from the sergeant's throat caught in her own chest. Then a great fear seized her and she clenched her legs together, desperately defending her most intimate of places from the man's hungry, searching fingers. She drew backwards, pushing away from him, her hair pulling painfully at the roots. But she was caught in the trammel of his grasp, utterly helpless against his burning passion and superior strength.

"How the cat arches its back. She wants me!" Daungha's thoughts soared, his arrogance growing even more than his arousal. "How the maid desires me!" He pulled her closer to him. His tight fist strained the roots of her hair as the other hand roamed her back. He began grinding his hardness against her. "How this must thrill her! The maid feels sensations, perhaps, that she never did before," he gloated in his lust.

Elfhild screamed again, a horrible, high-pitched wail. The sergeant became distracted momentarily, and then he felt Elffled kick him in the leg. She did not stop kicking him and he felt a sharp pain where her blows had landed. He knew there would be bruises there on the morrow.

At last he became aware of her twin, who pounded on his back, her fists tightly clenched, plummeting him. Then he felt her angry fingers grabbing at his braided hair, twisting it painfully. Elfhild screamed again. He looked around in alarm, the plunderer at bay.

"Curse you!" Elffled hissed, wrenching herself out of the sergeant's grasp. Though the three kisses had lasted for mere moments, she felt like she had endured each one for at least a hundred miserable years. She spat several times upon the ground and then used her sleeve to wipe the blood and saliva from her lips.

"Directives!" the sergeant's tortured mind shouted. He backed away rapidly from Elffled as Elfhild quickly rushed to her sister's side. "Onerous Directives, and with them, the threat of the unthinkable!" He realized suddenly that both sisters would like nothing more than that punishment be wrought upon him, and maybe they would enjoy dealing it themselves! "Directives, military Directives!"

Sergeant Daungha felt a heavy hand grasp his shoulder tightly from behind. The orcs had ceased their laughter. "Sergeant!" barked Captain Kourosh. "You forget yourself! Have you drunk too much wine?"

"Sir..." the one word was said in a pleading, humble voice.

"Orderly," the captain commanded. "Our horses... now!"

Tooraj scurried up with the men's horses and his own.

"Mount up," the captain ordered, his voice cold and threatening. "You and Tooraj are to ride ahead of me to the boundaries of this camp and wait for me there. Sergeant Daungha, I place you under arrest! Breach of military directives!"

The captain released his shoulder and Sergeant Daungha turned to face him. The look on the captain's face brought even greater fear to the sergeant. Daungha felt the sweat rolling off his face and body. Silently the sergeant turned away and mounted his horse, trembling. Tooraj gave the captain a grim salute and Sergeant Daungha saluted with a shaky hand. They paused their horses and then turned them, riding back the way they had come.

The captain stood holding the reins of his horse and looked to Elfhild and Elffled.

"I offer my apology, although I doubt that would make any difference," Captain Kourosh said respectfully. "We are not all this way," he lowered his voice.

Elffled clutched her sister tightly about her waist and back, trembling and sobbing upon her shoulder. Kind hands now stroked her back in comforting, soothing motions, and in her mind, she was a child again. Her mother, not her sister Elfhild, held her weeping form. She was frightened because of a bad dream instead of unwanted kisses and touches which had been forced upon her mouth and body by a strange man of the enemy.

Her head held high in haughty contempt, Elfhild glared scornfully at the captain over her sister's shoulder, her teeth tightly clenched for she was too angry to speak. She did not care if the man had come to her sister's rescue, for she judged all of these men as evil beyond redemption. He probably only wanted them both for himself!

"I see you do not believe me," Captain Kourosh remarked as he looked at them. "Sergeant Daungha thinks himself a great lover and a charmer of all female kind. I see that you do not agree with him."

"Nay," Elfhild hissed. "We do not." Her sister let out a loud sob and her hands tightened around the material of Elfhild's dress.

"My name is Captain Kourosh of the Khandrim Cavalry. I am sorry Sergeant Daungha was so brash. I will not say, though, that he is not a good soldier, for you would take that wrong, too, or perhaps you might take it correctly. We are, after all, enemies, and no doubt must remain so forever." He shook his head reflectively. "But we are not barbarians or savages. Remember that! What are your names?"

"Oh no!" Elfhild's heart sank. "To how many of these accursed folk must I tell my name?"

"Elfhild daughter of Eadbald," she admitted grudgingly, "and this is my sister, Elffled."

The captain nodded, his face expressionless. "Do you know the name of the corporal in whose charge you have been put?"

"Nay, we do not know his name," Elfhild replied, shaking her head. "It is something strange in a tongue unknown to us, but the sergeant's name is Glokal."

"I will take note of this on my official dispatch." He looked at them with something akin to pity in his eyes. "May the days be merciful to you and you find favor in the sight of the Great Master," he said, not knowing what else to say, and hoped that they would take it as a benediction. "Now I must leave you. Burz tor. Farewell." He nodded to them again and turned on his heel. He led his horse away a short distance and looking back at them, he mounted the charger and then rode away.

Captain Kourosh caught up with the sergeant and Tooraj, but he said nothing until they had ridden beyond the slave camp. Then he spoke in their own language, one of the dialects of the Variags. "Sergeant Daungha, while you have overstepped the intent of the Directives, I hope for your sake it will not be considered that you have gone too far. Perhaps leniency will be shown for your maleficence and indiscretion, and you will only receive a stout flogging."

The sergeant was silent, his head bowed. Tormenting thoughts pounded his brain as a mallet drives pegs. A cold, formal voice would read, "Breach of Military Directives," while strong men grabbed him and pinned him down. He could see himself as he lay chained, screaming in agony and shame. The wicked knife would tear his manhood away from him, and then the bloody reminders would be tossed carelessly into a pail. If he survived, all that awaited him would be unending, ceaseless labor as a slave until at last death brought his miserable life to a close.

"You know I cannot tolerate those who break the intent of the Directives, but far worse than what you actually did was the example you set for the troops in this camp!" The captain always hesitated to call them "orcs;" the word was somehow disrespectful to such fierce, loyal warriors. "Pray that the troops will never act upon what you have shown them this evening!"

The captain signaled for them to halt and the men reined in their horses. "Before we return to our camp, I want you to know this. When we get back, I will send Sergeant Utana with my letter to the orc captain. The letter will give my compliments to the captain and offer him a detachment of a troop to 'assist him in guarding the captives.' His proper reply will be to accept the offer graciously, although he will hate the order itself. Then, in the morning, Sergeant Utana and his troop will ride out with them, returning once they reach Minas Tirith."

Sergeant Daungha tried to look respectful and waited for the captain to continue.

"No doubt detaching this troop will put me to some trouble when I reach the army. Let whatever happens happens! Those On High do not wish to see another breakdown of order such as there was after the fall of Minas Tirith. It took days to restore military discipline and control!" Captain Kourosh emphasized.

Sergeant Daungha only heard half of what the captain said. His lectures were always long and tiresome.

"Perhaps you have been thinking too much upon your philosophy, the way you think things should be, not the way that things actually are. In all things from the least significant to the most, there will be order and discipline!" Captain Kourosh droned on. "Philosophy is best reserved for philosophers and loremasters and not for soldiers!"

The sergeant did not bother to ponder the captain's words, for he was trying to resign himself to his doom which he felt had already been sealed.

"But mark this, Sergeant Daungha, all that has happened will be recorded in my official reports, and there will be no philosophy contained there save the philosophy of military order," Captain Kourosh stated, his voice controlled anger, sparks that kindled fear in the sergeant's heart.

"The sergeant has not yet realized," the captain mused to himself, "that some of these maidens who are taken prisoner are reserved for other uses. Virgins bring the highest prices in the markets, for chieftains and lords insist on being the first to pluck the inner blossoms of virginal purity and would be greatly offended if their new wives did not give up their chastity with a show of red upon the sheets. Other uses also are there for maidens inviolate."

He thought of the altars of stone in foreboding temples and dark groves and the bloody ceremonies that were performed throughout most of the Dark Lands. He had never favored these practices himself, but he knew that the rites were necessary. Most of the people looked forward to these high days every year, and the Masters knew that the unlearned must always have their sanguineous forms of worship. "Probably our enemies make the same offerings to their False Gods," he reflected.

Perhaps someday this would change, but Captain Kourosh knew that it would not be in his lifetime. For a moment, his mind dwelt upon the frightened twins, and he felt pity for them, should this be their fate. But upon further consideration, he concluded that as long as it honored the Holy Lords of Ice and Flame, what did it matter to a simple captain of cavalry?

Silently the three men rode back to their camp.

* * *

Black Speech:  
Broshan - Hail, greetings, welcome  
Burz tor - Pleasant evening


	15. Knives in the Flames

Chapter Written by Angmar

In the distance they could see many small fires burning, campfires that the troopers had kindled to heat the water for brewing their evening tea and strong, pungent coffee. The three men rode their mounts into the field where the horses of the regiment stood tethered to picket lines. The area smelled of horse urine and dung, of grain and an almost overpowering aroma of horse medicine.

Tooraj dismounted his horse and waited for the other two men to turn their horses over to him. "You are dismissed," Captain Kourosh said to them. Sergeant Daungha and Tooraj saluted him, and after returning the salute, the captain walked away deep in thought. Tooraj, usually a cheerful fellow, always quick to jest, was quiet tonight.

"Sergeant, I..."

"Yes, Tooraj?"

"I hope," he said awkwardly, "that... that..." and then his words came out in a rush, "that you are pardoned and no misfortune befalls you!"

"So do I," said the sergeant quietly.

"The horses..." he said in embarrassment, "I must tend to the horses."

Sensing the youth's discomfiture, Sergeant Daungha said, "Aye, best that you do."

The sergeant watched Tooraj as he walked away, leading the horses. After unsaddling and unbridling the animals and tying them to the picket lines, he noticed that Tooraj did not tarry at the line.

"He is uneasy being around me now because he saw what happened earlier," thought the sergeant.

Relieved to be left alone, he listened to the sounds of the camp and the splashing and gurgling of a small stream that flowed down somewhere out of the foothills of the Thrihyrne. The Easterling thought it good fortune that there was ample water nearby. Much of the territory between Khand and Nurn held scant water and only scattered pasturage. Now, with the long months of drought and darkness, parts of the realm of Rohan had begun to resemble that land.

Tonight there were other things on the sergeant's mind and they did not concern the abundance or scarcity of either pasturage or water. "How can the careless placement of streams that feebly flow down the foothills of the mountains make any difference now? What does it matter to a condemned man whether there is tea or coffee, and why would it make any difference if there is sufficient honey, date molasses and spices with which to flavor them or not?"

Still it might be just as well to enjoy the last few comforts that were remaining to him while they lasted. He was in disgrace and knew the only consolation he had was that he had not been publicly humiliated in front the men and stripped of his rank. At least Captain Kourosh had not asked him to relinquish his sword. Sergeant Daungha was grateful to the captain for that boon. All that would come soon enough when they reached the main army, Sergeant Daungha reflected glumly.

As he made his way towards his company's campfire, he knew that he had to get his mind off such thoughts. He exchanged greetings with the men who were sitting around the brightly glowing fire and then eased himself down to the ground into a cross-legged position.

"Perhaps you would wish some tea, sir, spiced the way you like it?" a young orderly asked politely.

"Akh, that would do nicely," he answered absentmindedly.

"Just a few minutes, sir, and I will fetch you a cup," the orderly replied.

"Go ahead," the sergeant mumbled, not really caring, and he put the thoughts of the tea and the orderly out of his mind. He sat there, looking into the fire, and in the flames, he imagined he saw glowing red knives.

The orderly walked away from the circle of the fire and after taking a cup from a box, he returned and poured a cup of tea for the sergeant. "Here you are, sir."

"Narnûlublat," Sergeant Daungha said and he took a drink from the earthen cup.

It was always recommended that the officers and men speak in Black Speech as much as possible, for after all, the Master had designed the language. Sergeant Daungha and his men preferred their own native tongue, for they felt it more melodious and sonorous and it was dear to their heart. Some of the men even gave Black Speech the dubious epithet of "orc talk" when they were among themselves.

Several men in his company sat around the large fire talking or gambling, drinking tea, coffee or wine. The sergeant had always made it a practice that, when he was on a campaign, he would never drink wine until the day that the foe was bested. Then he would drink himself until he was too besotted to walk.

Others had gone to their bedrolls and were sleeping. Many men, restless, still lay awake, thinking about such things as how soon their horse would need to be reshod or whether the saddle blanket had not been smoothed properly over the beast's back and a sore had developed.

Lesions on an animal's back always called for an application of the horrendous, foul-smelling concoction that horse doctors called "sweet elixir of healing." The aroma was more the smell of something decaying than it was of any unguent that would bring healing. The sergeant had always wondered if some dark sorcery had gone into the making of the ill-scented salve. The mixture certainly smelled as though it had been formulated in the dark lair of some man or woman who used magic to create the mixture and then sold it to those whose horses were in dire need. The captain had always laughed at this tale and said that the compound was nothing more dried roots and berries mixed with rendered lard from some unknown beast. The composition probably would never actually be known.

Sergeant Daungha listened to the muted laughter, banter and songs of his company. He was proud of his command and fretted at how the company's numbers had been greatly reduced during the past year. Many had fallen at Pelennor, never to sit around the campfire and sing songs of the East again. A number of the old company who had managed to survive still had barely-healed wounds from the South. The sergeant had been lucky at Pelennor and had received not so much as a single scratch. "Mayhaps my luck has run out at last," he reflected. He had often been the victor in games of chance, and his men considered him favored by good fortune. After a night of throwing the bones, he had oft added many a copper and sometimes even a silver coin to his money pouch.

After the travails of the journey from Eastern Khand, the company's livery was ill-used. Then after the battle, much of their garments looked worse than the clothing of nomads who had been caught in a sandstorm in the waste spaces in Khand. There was sparsely an officer or man who had mail and weapons that were left undamaged or whose livery had not been rent. Others who had lost cloaks or tunics had "requisitioned" bloodied replacements from the bodies of corpses. Indeed, no longer were the men the splendid sight that they had been when they had left Khand, but what they lacked in appearance, though, they more than made up for in dash, spirit and audacity.

Sergeant Daungha thought about the captain and knew that he would be, as was his wont, surrounded by a group of men around his campfire. The captain was, no doubt, elaborating upon the words of some sage of olden days who had written about the structure of each grain of sand contained in a rock. Only the other night, Sergeant Daungha and other officers had sat, gathered around the captain, while he posited his theories about whether or not there might be some tiny, unseen indivisible particle which made up the composition of every living creature and thing in the whole world. Some man, wise and well versed in numbers, long years before had put forth the idea of a cipher in numeric notation to represent the concept of nothing, or, as it was expressed in the Mordorian Numeric System, "nar." Captain Kourosh's discourses were always astute and provoked many to ponder upon matters that he never would have considered himself.

Many times Captain Kourosh's interpretations and ponderings and reflections were far too lofty for the sergeant to understand thoroughly. Always they provoked thought and given the sergeant cause for contemplation. He hoped that the captain did not feel too harsh towards him now for his indiscretion, for he valued the soft-spoken philosopher's trust, as did the other men in the regiment.

All the men were off duty tonight save for those who had been detached as pickets and were now patrolling the outer periphery of the cavalry camp. Corporal Babak had not been feeling well for the past few days and had been excused from the duty.

The corporal was a small, dark-haired man, hardly out of his teen years. Though it was scarcely more than half an inch long, he was proud of the fine beard that he was cultivating and he groomed and oiled it almost every day. The young corporal would have been handsome with his two long metal-tipped braids on either side of his face and long, dark hair flowing down his back, but a large growth had swollen above his left eyebrow a few months before. Besides causing him pain, the tumor detracted greatly from his appearance. He, like the rest of the Easterling cavalrymen, used kohl to highlight his dark, flashing eyes, but lately he had worn none, for he wished to call no more attention to himself than was necessary.

Corporal Babak walked over to where Sergeant Daungha sat, and, after asking permission, sat down near the sergeant.

"How are you feeling tonight, Corporal? That eye still troubling you?" asked the sergeant.

"Aye, sir," the young man said. "It has bothered me some but nothing more than I can take."

"When we join the main army, corporal, you must see one of our surgeons. They are greatly skilled in the procedures of surgery, far more so, it is said, than most other physicians in the lands to the East," the sergeant said proudly, "and definitely far more so than the infidels to the West!"

The corporal, in spite of the fact that he was in pain, still retained his droll sense of humor. "Perhaps the penalty for failure gives the surgeon more desire to devote himself to studying the methods of the great surgeons, and then when he wields the instruments, he does so with more care."

"Aye," said the sergeant, "you might have something there. The judgment against a surgeon who is guilty of carelessness, causing the patient either to lose his eye or to die, would face the sentence of both seeing both his hands sliced from his arms!" He laughed grimly.

The corporal joined him in the wry humor. "Then he would be without hands and I would be without an eye, or perhaps dead. Who is the worse off? Of course, there is a deterrent for both - the patient to seek his aid or the surgeon to operate!"

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," the sergeant said. "That is the old law of the traditions handed down to us from our ancestors. The judgment is harsh, but it makes for highly skilled surgeons."

Sergeant Daungha doubted that the surgeon who would be called upon to geld him would be either skillful or kind. The initial dismay that he had felt upon hearing Captain Kourosh's harsh pronouncement of, "You are under arrest," had passed. Now Sergeant Daungha just felt benumbed. He could scarcely believe that he would be tried for disobeying the harsh directive when the regiment rejoined the army.

Noticing the sergeant's mood seemed subdued and grim, Corporal Babak turned to him, a concerned look upon his face. "Sergeant, you do not look very well tonight. Is something ailing you?"

"Nar, nothing." He remembered his cup of tea and took another drink.

"Sergeant, rumor has it that Sergeant Utana and a troop will be dispatched in the morning to go to aid the orcs guarding the slaves on the journey to Minas Tirith." The corporal paused. "You were there in the camp tonight. Is something astir?"

The sergeant's throat suddenly constricted. "The tea is too strong tonight," he gulped as he threw the contents into the fire. An erratic thought came to him. "Those who steal honey from the hive get stung by the bees, and I have thrown away the family jewels for just three kisses! A high price to pay indeed!"

The corporal leaned closer at him. "Sergeant," he pressed, hoping for some interesting news, "did the orcs get out of line tonight?"

"Nar, corporal, the captain was just taking extra precautions, I think."

"Well, it is not my place anyway, sergeant, to delve too far into the affairs of officers." The corporal again looked closely at the sergeant and noticed there were beads of sweat upon his forehead. Since the growth had appeared above his eye, the corporal had become overly concerned with ailments and diseases. He now wore many charms, talismans and even a pouch of vile-smelling herbs about his neck. The corporal had spent much of his small earnings to pay a man in the company who, in great, swelling words and mysterious incantations, had assured him that these things would surely "ward away all evil."

"Mayhaps the sergeant has been cursed with some sort of calamity, like the Pox," Corporal Babak thought, "or the Plague. The leprosy of Eastern Khand is ill enough. Who knows what evils may befall us in this foul land? Akh, this place may prove more ill-omened than the East!" The corporal stroked the charms about his neck nervously.

"Sergeant, your color is not at all robust tonight," said the corporal. "I hope your health will be restored to you soon!"

"Corporal, I am not ill," Sergeant Daungha said, perplexed.

"I meant nothing, sir! I was just concerned."

The corporal had become sure that the sergeant was coming down with the plague or leprosy. He no longer felt at ease sitting in such proximity to him.

"Now I must be going to my bedroll," he said quickly. "Tomorrow will be a long one."

"Burz tor, pizgal," said Sergeant Daunga. "May the might of Mardu, spirit of light and all destiny, guard you against demons that prowl the darkness!"

"And you, sergeant, may you be protected! Burz tor," the corporal said and hastily retreated, rubbing the amulets once more for good measure.

Sergeant Daungha's muscles felt cramped sitting there so long. Rising to his feet and stretching, he walked towards his bedroll.

"Sergeant Daungha," Tooraj said as he moved into the light of the campfire, "the captain wants to see you."

"Now it comes," the sergeant thought as he felt the heavy hand of doom descend upon his shoulders. "All for a maiden and three stolen kisses," he thought, "a maiden who will remember me with nothing but hatred!"

"Of course, Tooraj," he said as he joined the youth and headed towards the glow of the captain's fire.

Captain Kourosh sat reading a dispatch by the amber light. Without looking up he said, "Get him a cup of tea, Tooraj."

The sergeant saw Tooraj's look of sympathy before the lad bent to pour him a cup of tea. "Here, sir," Tooraj said as he handed him the cup. Taking it, the sergeant stood there, feeling like a felon under scrutiny before the dock.

"Narbûlublat," Sergeant Daungha said.

"Take a seat, sergeant," Captain Kourosh's soft voice said. He noticed the sergeant's solemn face. In a voice so low the sergeant could scarcely hear it, the captain said, "Tooraj saw all that transpired but his lips are always tight. What you have done is still unknown beyond us and will remain so until we reach the army. On the morrow, you will take charge of your company as always and ride at the head of your company. When we rejoin the army, I will, in person, submit my report to the Lieutenant, and then the matter will be in his hands. I will say everything in your favor that I can say. You have a good record, and I trust matters will not go so harshly on you, but I cannot say, sergeant. The Directive is very explicit in its language and leaves no room for argument, but I will do all I can for you."

"Thank you, sir." The sergeant thought he could discern a note of compassion in the captain's voice but the captain was always impassive, impersonal, when he discussed military matters.

The sergeant sat down and looked into his cup of tea, the contents as dark as his thoughts. When he drank, it seemed the liquid was not at all comforting like it always was, and the taste seemed bitter.

"I had already talked to the other commanders tonight before I summoned you. All have given me an account of their companies' travel, the state of their men and horses, the tack, when they estimated their horses would need to be reshod and the remaining rations and all such matters as pertain to the well-being of a company." Captain Kourosh sighed. He felt fatigued and his muscles ached. He stretched, one of the bones in his spine creaking. "A long day's ride; a longer ride ahead," he thought.

"I trust that the companies are in good fettle," the sergeant said, making conversation more than anything.

"As well as could be expected, although none of them have quite recovered from the battles in the South. And your company, sergeant, how fares it?"

The two men sat and sipped their tea. The sergeant had nothing extraordinary to report about his company, only the usual matters of how many men were sick and how many horses had to be destroyed because of irreversible lameness or injuries.

"If my estimations are accurate," the captain said, "we should rejoin the army in six to ten days. Then," he looked at the sergeant, "battle will be almost certainly imminent, if it has not already been joined." He sighed again. "No couriers have been sent to us with any news and as of yet we do not know what is happening." The captain turned to Tooraj. "Tooraj, I would appreciate if you would see about my horse before you go to bed for the night. The stout beast is still favoring the injury he sustained at Pelennor."

Tooraj smiled and said, "I will look after him, sir. All he wants, perhaps, is a little company. He seems to have grown quite fond of me."

"Narnûlublat, Tooraj," the captain murmured.

The captain dismissed Sergeant Daungha and Tooraj and wished them both a good night's sleep.

The sergeant left the campfire and walked to the outer edge of the camp. After relieving himself in the long ditch that served as a privy, he went to the spot that he had chosen as his sleeping place. Putting his blanket down on a piece of canvas that served to shield him from the dampness of the ground, he lay down on it and rolled himself up in the warm covering. Exhausted, he quickly fell asleep, and then he dreamed.

* * *

NOTES

Captain Kourosh, Sergeant Daungha, Corporal Babak, Tooraj and all the men of this regiment of Khandrim cavalry come from the Far East in the realm of Khand. This region is not found on most maps of Middle-earth, which only go as far east as the eastern eaves of the Ash Mountains. However, Middle-earth is much larger than this, and these men once lived on one of two rivers which flow to the sea. Many of the names of the characters are taken from ancient languages of the Mid-east.

Though Middle-earth became a round world after Númenor was drowned, still all maps portray it as a flat surface, not taking in mind the curvature of the earth. Therefore, distances are skewed, and the whole of Middle-earth seems much smaller than it actually is, especially in the east. Comparing the Second Age Map of Arda found on pages 38-39 in The Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fondstad to the map of today's world, these two rivers in Eastern Khand are in approximately the same location as the Euphrates and Tigris Rivers. The eastern sea coast of Middle-earth seems to follow the border of Iran and Pakistan, though Pakistan is under the water. Afghanistan seems to be the easternmost point upon the Second Age map, the rest of Asia not yet having risen from beneath the waters.

History notes: The quote, "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," comes from the Code of Hammurabi, c. 1780 BC. Hammurabil, a wise king who ruled Babylon from 1795-1750 BC, codified existing laws and incorporated them into this magnificent code, the earliest known record of a system of laws. Though the penalties were severe, the law was remarkable for the time, giving certain rights even to slaves. The position of free women in this society was one of dignity and protection under the law.

The penalty for the surgeon is taken from the above code of Hammurabi and is a true and accurate record of surgical skills and penalties suffered by surgeons guilty of malpractice.

"Mardu" is a version of the name of the High Babylonian God Marduk, a fertility god and ruler of all creation (later called Bel). In this society, as in the days when Christianity first became a prominent religion of a country, the Christian God was worshiped along with the other gods that were pre-existing.

In this Alternative Universe, the hypothesis is that men would forget more and more about Eru and the Valar and adopt local and tribal deities. Then there are also the Sauron and Melkor cults. An interesting mix.

Black Speech:  
Akh - Yes  
Nar - No  
Narnûlublat - Thank you  
Burz tor - Pleasant evening


	16. Dreams of Blue Eyes

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The maiden stood in the doorway, long, golden hair falling about her shoulders. The light in the hall behind her flowed through her flimsy silk gown, silhouetting the abundant curves of her body against an amber glow. "Master," she murmured shyly, demurely looking to the floor.

Reclining lazily upon his bed, he lay naked under a light covering. "You have permission to enter my chamber. Close the door behind you."

"Thank you, Master," she replied, stepping on quiet feet into the dimly lit room. Moonlight streamed through the lattice-covered windows, making diamond patterns upon the floor, the silver light mingling with the flickering gold gleam of oil lamps and candles.

Ornate tapestries in a myriad of strident colors hung from the walls, now muted in the peaceful gloom, and the heady scent of incense was thick in the heavy air. Exotic flowers and intricate geometric designs were woven into the rugs upon the floor. Cushions and pillows lay scattered about the room. Beside the bed stood a tall, delicately wrought golden-globed waterpipe, its unused stems curling lazily about like serpents sunning themselves upon warm rocks.

The maiden closed the door quietly and then turned, looking towards the opulently draped couch. "Does my Master have need of me?" she asked, her voice sweet and pleasing to the ear. Never before had the master summoned her to his chambers.

"Master is most needful of you!" he exclaimed as he looked at her, beholding her beauty as though through a misty haze of incense and poppies. "Have my servants prepared you for my pleasure?"

She nodded. "The maidservants aided my bathing and perfumed me with rose and jasmine, applying creams of honey, beeswax and sesame to my skin and red ochre to my lips. Yet, my Master, I must confess," she admitted, looking more than a bit abashed, "that my flesh still stings from the pumice which was rubbed upon my body, especially that near my..." she looked down and her voice sank to a whisper, "most intimate of areas."

She looked up, a furtive, bashful glance. "I must say..." her blush deepened, aided by the ochre upon her cheeks, "that such customs were never practiced in the Riddermark."

"You will learn many things here that are unknown in the land of your birth and you will find our customs strange at first," he laughed. "The servants have done well, to bathe and bedeck you, using their skill to remove your imperfections. Only the uncivilized share their couches with women who have not been rid of all hair from their necks to their feet! Come closer to me. Move softly and as you do, rid yourself of your garments. Remove them slowly, tantalizingly. I want to see your every movement, every gesture, as you unveil yourself before me!"

"But, Master," she murmured timidly, looking about at the many lights set upon low tables, "the room is far too bright and... I have never disrobed before a man. May I snuff the wicks in the lamps and blow out the candles?"

"No," he answered, his voice rich and deep. "You can see me, can you not? Why would you deny me the pleasure of seeing you? And the lamps, nay, not the lamps, for they are scented with the oil of love," he laughed, a low sound, deep in his throat.

"As you wish." She smiled nervously and then looked down to hide her flushing cheeks.

Her heart pounding, her hands went to her side, where slender fingers began to untie the knot which secured the long, flowing silken wrap which hung low, draped about her hips. As she walked, gently swaying, the cloth slowly slid down the backs of her thighs and then fluttered to the floor, a scarlet mist about bare feet. Raising her head, she looked to him, her kohl-rimmed blue eyes a strange mixture of maidenly anxieties and newly-kindled flames of desire. Silver circles hung from her pierced ears, the reflection of candlelight glittering brightly off the metal rings peaking from beneath the gentle waves of her hair.

"Why do you tarry, maiden? I grow impatient!" he exclaimed eagerly. "Rid yourself of your enveloping garments and let me see what fortune has cast before me!"

Reaching down, she drew the length of her peach-colored silken dress up, up, slowly brushing against the smooth skin of her pumiced legs like the tide receding into the ocean. First scandalous shins, then knees - oh, so daring - and then the fabric brushed lightly over her mound of pleasure, over her thin stomach and then her round globes of desire, and at last over her head, tousling slightly her hair, a hazy mist of sunshine. Her pale, alabaster flesh, hairless and supple, shone with a warm blush, like the light of a rosy dawn upon a white lily.

He moved into a sitting position and then swung his legs over the side of the bed, the light sheet sliding back from his body, baring him to her eyes. He rested his chin on his hand and surveyed her, studying her, looking over every curve, every shadowed crevice, every detail of her face and body.

"Blue Eyes, you may come to me, my little one."

"My master honors me, for he has chosen me above the other women this night," she whispered, her voice filled with quiet joy. She approached the bed and knelt before her master, looking up at him with awe and reverence.

He moved forward and cupped her face in his hands. "You are a lovely maid," he sighed, his voice hoarse, "and your hair! It is as fair and rich as finely spun gold! Never has your like been seen in my land. The other chieftains would pay heavily for you, but no man will ever see your beauty unveiled, save the eunuchs and perhaps," he said, his voice growing even lower, "the sons I have with you!"

"Your sons!" she gasped in wonder, her heart swelling with love. "Oh, my most dear, beloved Master! It brings me great happiness to know that I please you so, to be accounted among one of your favorites!"

Pulling her closer, he licked her lips, his tongue soft and moist. Then he kissed her soft, wet mouth slowly, his lips hungering over hers. His hands ran down her neck and then over her bare shoulders, enjoying the feel of her smooth, even skin. Then, plunging his tongue into her mouth, he groaned as he tasted the lingering savor of honey and apricot.

"See how much you have pleased me already?" He moved his lips away from hers and drew her hand to the throbbing protuberance in his lap. "You will please me even more soon." He gazed into her eyes, which were half-closed, still lost in the delight of his kisses.

"Her eyes are blue, like lapis lazuli, her skin is pale as sweet milk, and soft, oh, so soft," he thought. "Her hair... there is no word for it! The sun bursting on ripened grain in the field near the Great River of my land. Her beauty is beyond all that I have seen, even among the fair ones in my country. She is a jewel set among women!"

"You have permission to rise and enter my bed," he commanded.

She rose gracefully to her feet and cast a shy glance at her master's unclad form, her blush deepening. An unfamiliar excitement stirred within her and coursed through her veins, causing her to shiver. Soon she was beside him, her perfumed form sinking into the thick cushions, her head resting upon richly embroidered pillows of vivid hues.

He rolled over upon his side, resting his chin upon his hand. "Turn and face me," he commanded in a whisper. As she reached for him, he pulled her into his arms. Their lips met, his hands groping, moving over her breasts, feeling the small berries of her nipples rising with his touch. His fingers caressed her firm stomach and then sought lower.

"You are a virgin, are you not?" he asked, breathing rapidly.

"Yes, Master, I am," she whispered, her voice betraying her fear. She swallowed, trembling slightly, her gaze dropping to the plaits in his braided beard, and then over his strong shoulders. Gentle fingers moved over his muscular chest, the dark forest of hair parting before them. His long, black hair trailed down over one of his collarbones, like a cascade of raven waters. In a feeble attempt to allay her uneasiness, she turned her attentions to playing with the errant strands, coiling them about her fingers and feeling their coarse texture.

"You know this will hurt, but you know also that the pain will be forgotten quickly?" his accented voice was husky.

She raised her head and looked into his eyes. The light of the candles shimmered off the rich brown pools, and her heart leaped and melted within her chest. Waves of affection washed over her and she felt as though she were drowning, but she did not care.

"I know," she whispered, her voice tender, "but for just one night with you, my beloved master, I would suffer a thousand nights of pain."

"First the pain and then the pleasure, little one. I do not wish to be unkind to my women."

Moving closer to him, she embraced him with trust and devotion, though a part of her was still afraid. His accented voice was like an exotic melody to her ears, calming and soothing, and she breathed in his scent, the spicy aroma of the fragrant oil heavy to her nose. Yes, the other women had shared his couch many times, but this was her night, and she was thrilled that she had been chosen, and prayed that he would summon her often.

With a laugh, he pushed his long, dark unbraided hair back over his shoulder and then he rolled her under him. "Sweet Maid of the North," he muttered before his mouth crushed hers again, a low moan in his throat. He caught her lower lip in his and sucked on it, bruising the bloom of its tenderness.

Then he rose over her, towering above her, his long hair now a curtain of darkness. Unprepared, she gasped as he parted her thighs. He groaned again. "You are so small... you will be most sore tomorrow," he chuckled deeply, "and so will I."

He entered her quickly before she had time to dwell upon the fear, and he felt her tremble and heard her cry of surprise as he began to move slowly inside of her. Her feet slid against the cool sheets and her hands tightly gripped his back as she gasped and whimpered. She arched her back, making soft sounds in her own language, her mind barely comprehending what was happening. He slid his hands beneath her, holding the small of her back, his mouth swooping down to lick over one of her breasts. She moaned and shuddered, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. Her body on fire, she clung to him as he deepened his thrusts and rocked slowly back and forth.

"I hurt you, I know," he whispered, "and I am sorry." He hung there suspended inside her before he pushed into her again. His desire had been overwhelming and he knew he could not withhold himself for long. "She lies under me, like a frightened doe, but someday," he thought and licked his lips in anticipation, "my caresses will turn her into a lioness!"

Her warm, secret place pulsed about him, exciting him, driving him to move faster. She began to move under him, trying to match his movements. "Innocent!" he thought to himself, but her attempts urged him to move faster and he rushed towards his release.

Sweat streamed from his forehead, his hair damp against his face and neck as his passion roared to its climax. He eased down upon her, flattening her breasts against him, his arms holding her in a tight lock as his passion crested into a wave. A last powerful thrust, a cascading rush and the warm seed streamed into her. He howled in his own language, strange words, guttural, primitive.

"Little one," he whispered. "My little one."

Their mingled moisture enveloped him as he withdrew from her warm cave, and he moaned. He felt the blanket beneath him drenched in wetness. He moaned again and awoke to the sound of male voices laughing and the sodden blanket tangled under his body.

"Damn!" Sergeant Daungha exclaimed and, after rolling to his side, he rose to his feet. "Damn," he cursed again. "Nothing but a dream and an illusion in the mind!"

He undid the knot which tied his breeches. When they had fallen to his ankles, he kicked them aside, cursing in his own tongue. Giving a warning glance to his nearby comrades who still lay, laughing, in their bedrolls, he walked to his saddlebag and took out a fresh pair of breeches and angrily stuffed the soiled ones back in the bag. He went to his waterskin and took a handful of water and cleaned himself off as best he could.

The trumpet sounded the call to get up. He cursed once again as he pulled on his breeches and then drew on his boots. Hastily, he braided his hair, one lock on either side of his face, and affixed the metal tips to the ends. He took a small mirror from his kit, and, looking at his reflection, he applied kohl to his eyelids, the style of a warrior, fierce and fell.

Later, he drank his tea and ate his hard bread in silence, scarcely looking around him. When his horse handler brought him his steed, he took the reins and swung into the saddle. Mechanically he gave the order to his men to mount up. Then his company formed a column, the other companies falling in the rows behind him as the captain rode to the front of the column. After wheeling into the Road, they were on their way. They passed the slave camp, which was astir with the early morning rising. Sergeant Daungha turned his head and his eyes sought for a gleam of gold among the feeble light. And then he saw her!

"Blue Eyes!" his mind cried out.

"Elffled daughter of Eadbald," he thought to himself, "if fortune ever brings you into my path again, I swear by the Highest of the High Lords that I will find your master and buy you from him! I shall make you my first wife! For wedding gifts, I will give you necklaces and rings, headdresses with great, long strands of tinkling silver coins. A house will I build for you near the banks of the River where the ruins of Olden Days lie, and it will be strong, safe and secure. Fine rugs will be upon the floors and I will give to you of my flocks and herds. Many children will we have and we shall dwell together in happiness and joy. Damn you, fair maiden of the North! I have fallen in love with you and may I be cursed forever for it!"

He smiled and then he rode on.


	17. Sweet Temptations

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The morning after Sergeant Daungha's breach of the military Directives, a troop of Easterlings under the command of Sergeant Utana was dispatched to guard the prisoners. Yet though the men had been sent there to protect them, the women felt little comfort from their presence. What assurance did they have that the men would not prove as foul as the orcs, or even more so? After almost two weeks of marching, the captives knew full well that the only thing which saved them from the direst of misfortunes was the strict orders issued by the mysterious hierarchy within the army of Mordor. The orcish captains were not so faithful as the men in keeping the rules, for their kind was given to unruliness and savagery. The lads had come close to breaking the directives many a time with dagger sport, mean threats and cruel torment.

Now, with the close of the second day after the arrival of the Easterling troop, the women had even more to fret about than just orcs. It seemed that quite a few maids had taken an interest in the strange, tawny men, much to the dismay and consternation of their mothers. Many times during the march of the last two days a disapproving mother would catch her daughter casting furtive glances towards the Easterlings, appraising them with curiosity and the faintest stirrings of admiration. When the first day's march had at last come to an end, the men had invited the fair-haired captives to share their rations, to taste the wonders of spicy tea, jars of honey, and strange dried fruits called figs, apricots and dates. The women had been hesitant to allow their daughters to become friendly with the barbarous folk of the East, for they distrusted and despised any man of Mordor. Yet the temptations of food, drink and handsome warriors were hard to resist, and the women had watched helplessly as the Easterlings ensnared their daughters with sweet words and sweet food.

This evening was no different. As she ate her miserable little supper, Elfhild sat upon her travel-worn brown cloak and observed from afar the cavalrymen and their new admirers. A small following of maids from one of the other troops had gathered about them, just the way they had the evening before. Though each troop of ten was not allowed to mingle with the other troops of prisoners, the men did not resent such fair company, and the orcs dared not interfere with the wishes of the Easterlings.

Rising over the quiet hum of fretting captives were the sounds of giggles and titters mingled with those of deep, accented voices. Elfhild wondered what could be found to talk about with dark-skinned barbarians, but certainly anything was better than another night of listening to the endless woes of her fellow captives.

And if interesting conversation was not temptation enough, there was also music! Even now she could hear the tantalizing sound: strange, exotic melodies played upon curious instruments. The men were singing songs in a guttural yet intricate language; so different from the bawdy songs of orcs, the commanding calls of horns and the angry beating of war drums. Did their songs speak of love and passion, of battles and war, of great warriors and feats of daring, or were they merely nonsense songs meant to amuse? Perhaps the ways of the two peoples, the Rohirrim and the Easterlings, were not that much different after all, though one race was fair and the other was foul.

Elfhild sighed. She both envied the ones who had the courage to approach the cavalrymen and resented them for their audacity. But her thoughts were daring enough as it was, perhaps. For was it not traitorous to hold any feeling other than hatred in her heart for those who were enemies? Her thoughts had become divided. Still she was curious.

It was not that she was overly enamored of the handsome young men as other maidens were. After the three kisses which were forced upon her sister's unwilling lips, she was most wary of the Easterlings. Nay, she was sick of bread, meat and water and longed for a change. Her chewing became painful as she imagined eating delicious delicacies and delightful sweetmeats from the Far East. She could almost taste the sweet savor of figs and dates and nearly gagged on the dry clod of bread which slid down her throat.

Elffled sat beside her sister upon the brown cloak, eating the evening meal in silence. She gave little thought to the tasteless bread, for her mind was not upon the monotony of their rations. Nay, she walked once again beneath shady boughs beside her sister in the Eastfold of the Mark. They would bring with them a small meal wrapped up in a light blanket, and then they would quarrel over who would be the one who would carry the burden. At last, their journey would come to an end when they found a peaceful spot which was pleasing to their senses. Then they would spread the cloth out upon the ground and eat and talk until Eadfrid was sent out to find them. Her stomach rumbled at the fond memories but she tried to ignore it.

Elffled looked to her older sister, studying her features in the subdued light. It had been quite some time since she had said anything; her mood seemed thoughtful and reflective. Maybe her thoughts were upon the past as well.

"Are you thinking about home?" Elffled asked softly.

Elfhild was slightly surprised by her sister's sudden intrusion into her wretched thoughts of hunger. "No," she replied, looking to her sister, "I was really thinking about how delightful the food of the Easterlings must be, compared to this miserable bread."

"Oh." Elffled looked down. Somehow she felt disappointed.

"I am sick of it," Elfhild continued. "I do not know if I shall ever eat bread again, if by some lucky chance we are given something else. We might as well be eating dirt! That is what this stuff tastes like to me now." She paused, thinking up a witty insult. "Nay, I speak ill of the dirt; I daresay it would be a delicacy compared to our rations."

"Well, if you are so weary of bread and dried meat, then go over and beg the Easterlings for their crumbs like a dog," Elffled spoke disdainfully, tossing her head in their direction. "But as for me, I would rather eat dry, tasteless bread than subject myself to the foul lusts of those vile men."

Elfhild felt herself involuntarily tense for battle. They had quarreled about this same thing the evening before. Elffled had adamantly refused to have anything to do with the Easterlings. Elfhild thought it a bit silly. After all, the cavalryman who had kissed her seemed to be a brash young man, and had been disciplined by his commander for being out of line. Why should they both both suffer when there was an opportunity for some slight solace? Had they not suffered enough already as it was?

"I do not beg for food from anyone," Elfhild replied stiffly, her voice filled with offended pride. "But can you tell me honestly that you are not sick of the food the orcs give us?"

"I would rather eat it than be polite to an Easterling," Elffled spat, still fuming about Sergeant Daungha. "The taste of dry bread is far more palatable than the lips of a strange man."

"Oh, she can be stubborn!" Elfhild thought resentfully. But where force failed, mayhap sweetly-spoken appeals would prevail... Scheming, she considered other ways to pursuade her sister into going with her. "Certainly they are not all foul," she cajoled softly, gesturing to the cavalrymen. "See? No ill has befallen those maids." She nodded her head in the direction of the other girls.

"Yet," Elffled muttered sullenly. She thought the girls were either of little virtue or perilously innocent.

"They eat sweet food and drink spicy tea and listen to beautiful melodies, while we sit here, eat dry bread and think gloomy thoughts." Elfhild dangled a most attractive lure before her sister. "What would eating a little of their food harm anything?" she asked innocently. "The other girls talk of the wonders of dried ap-ri-cots, figs and dates; delightful tastes that none of us have ever known before."

"I have become rather accustomed to despair, but I resent strange men pawing all over me," Elffled replied darkly. "No piece of candy or sweetmeat, no matter how delicious, is worth that. These cavalrymen are probably just as crude and boorish as that loathsome Daungha!"

"Not every man desires your lips, Elffled," Elfhild stated, surprised at the blatant hostility in her honeyed voice.

Elffled gaped at her sister for a moment before she realized the magnitude of her hateful words. Then her eyes narrowed and she glared daggers at the other girl. "Do you think I actually wanted some random stranger to grab me and slobber all over my face? Why do you not go over there yourself and leave me alone? I hope the Easterlings give you so many kisses that you choke and drown in their fetid spittle!"

Elfhild recoiled in dismay, her cheeks blushing with embarassment. "Listen, 'Fled, I am sorry," she appologied, feeling guilty for what she had said earlier. "But we are marching to where we know not. Can we not have a moment of happiness ere we resign ourselves completely to the evil doom which has been laid upon us? We can politely thank the Easterlings for the food and then leave if they say or try anything improper," she pled, her voice now sounding almost pathetic.

The subject distressed Elffled and she did not wish to speak of it anymore. Her sister did not understand how frightened she had been, the horrible thoughts which had raced through her mind as the sergeant's wandering hands had roamed her body, fondling her breasts and groping between her legs. Her flesh felt sullied where he had touched her and she longed to cleanse herself. No, her sister would never understand. Though it was a spiteful thing to think, Elffled wondered if perhaps her sister would have enjoyed the three disgusting kisses. She certainly delighted in being the center of attention all of the time.

"Please, Elfhild, I am not going over there," Elffled stated with cold finality and fear veiled beneath a tone of warning. "You can go, but not me."

Elffled held her sister's gaze for a moment, and even in the dim light, Elfhild could see the stern determination written there. Nothing more would be said of this, at least not this evening. Soon they would be ordered to sleep for the night and could only speak in whispers lest they provoke the ire of their guards. Usually the captives were obedient, for the day's march had rendered them too weary to do aught else but rest.

Defeated for the moment, Elfhild fell silent, sulking. She looked down at her half-eaten bread, which seemed to her more like a piece of granite than it did edible food. She pecked at it with her fingers, moving the unappetizing clod slightly, and then, resigning herself, she tore off a small chunk, sending a spray of crumbs tumbling upon her skirt. With great reluctance, she brought the bread to her lips and began to chew. She could be tasting of the fruits of the East right now, feasting upon figs and dates, and all manner of foods of which she could only imagine.

"My sister is a fool," she mused bitterly, raising her head to shoot her a contemptuous glare. Elffled did not see her fiery gaze, however, for her attentions were turned towards the earth. Her mind lost to dour ponderings, her fingers absently carved tiny trenches into the dry, velvety ground. It crumbled like little pats of flour beneath her firm touch, and she wove patterns between spindly blades of grass, creating roads and causeways for tiny imaginary passengers.

"Making little pictures in the dirt again, I suppose," Elfhild thought with disgust, "like a chicken scratching for worms."

If only her sister were not such a frightened little coward! If only there were girls of her own age in her troop, not wise older women and young children. If her old friends from the village were with her, they would have been more than willing to eat of the Easterlings' food, drink of their tea, listen to their songs and gaze with curiosity and forbidden interest upon the warriors of the East.

But all of her friends were in other troops and she seldom got the chance to speak much with them, though the captives always camped in the same area. Swithwyn had escaped the clutches of the raiders, for she was fleet of foot, and her mother had begged her to forsake her and flee, or so the rumors said. The parting was bitter and she would have fain stayed with her mother to the death, but the woman commanded her daughter to take flight and she could not be dissuaded. Such are the sorrows of war.

Elfhild could eat no more of the bread. Moving to the side, she drew the cloak up and tucked the crusty remnant into a little pocket. Smoothing the dun-colored wool back down, she resumed her seat, casting a hostile glance at her sister, whom she considered quite simple. Sighing, Elfhild looked down at her lap and her worn and wrinkled skirt. She ran her finger along a series of small, puckered ridges upon the fabric. The threads were drawn tight, pulled and marred by the grabbing hooks of brambles along the trail.

"Elfhild, you must understand. These men are not like those of the Mark," Elffled said at last. Elfhild looked up and over to her. "Our men are honorable and kind, unlike these foul Easterlings," she pled, wondering if her sister would understand. "Only a rogue and a scoundrel, an unsavory character given to mischief, would force his kisses upon an unwilling maid. And, Elfhild, he kissed me most intimately, if you understand, and his hands were all over my body."

Elfhild's nose wrinkled up in disgust. "Our men would never do anything like that to a woman, be she peasant or lady, or baseborn wench," she proclaimed adamantly.

"But we are all less than the lowest of women to these Easterlings, who take what they want and despoil what they will. So you see, Hild," she explained softly, "why I do not want to speak to those men. I do not want them to notice me. If I could make myself unseen to their eyes, I would."

"If we could veil ourselves in invisibility, then we would sneak away and complain never again of bread or of captivity," Elfhild retorted, trying to bring her sister some well-needed cheer. Her irritation had subsided and was now replaced with pity. Indeed, she had been selfish before, thinking only of her own belly, but it was a sore trial for her hungry stomach to be denied such sweet temptations.

Elffled smiled against her will. Then, giving into her amusement, she broke out into laughter, feeling her tensions ease somewhat.

"Ah, but I daresay that only sorcerers and magicians could do such a trick, and we are neither skilled in dwimmer-craft nor do we wish to be any part of such things. So why speak of that which shall never happen?" Elffled shrugged, slightly out of breath from laughing. "If an Easterling proves himself as being anything other than a lout and a boor, then mayhap I shall speak with him, but I do not know."

Elfhild sighed. "How I wish the Riders would come and save us and slay all these evil orcs and men!"

"Then we would surely die, for we would be slain if they thought we had any hope of being rescued," Elffled commented quite matter-of-factly.

"Ah, you are most cheerful this eve," Elfhild laughed sarcastically, teasing her sister. Despair was a part of life now, just as commonplace as eyes red and irritating from weeping; a truth which could be neither hidden nor denied.

"I wonder what happened in the South," Elfhild sighed. "Naught have we heard for almost four months."

Once Elfhild had imagined brave battles, but now all she saw in her mind were horrible scenes of slaughter. Months of cloudy, sunless skies and the ancient fear of the Dark had driven all hope from her heart. But though hopeless and despairing, still she was innocent, for she had tasted only a tiny drop of the poison of sorrow and death. She had never drunk the full measure, draining the dreadful cup to its dregs, and so she still had dreams and illusions that war could be a glorious thing.

A thoughtful look crossed Elffled's face. "Things went evil; that much is certain," she murmured, "or else ere long we would be seeing a great host of men thundering towards us to deliver Sunland and the Mark."

"Now that would be a most welcome sight, though perhaps not for us captives!" remarked Elfhild. "I remember when the Riders of Rohan went by Grenefeld on their way to Gondor. How magnificent they looked upon their fine chargers; how our hearts soared with pride to see the warriors of our land all gathered together in a host most glorious and gallant! We dared the darkness to see their passing, watching with tearful eyes as they sped towards the East."

"Aye," nodded Elffled. "And we were so frightened when we heard that the King had been presented with the Red Arrow, for that meant war was of a surety."

Elfhild sighed. "I suppose that all were worsted in the South, utterly crushed by the might of the Enemy. Even if some managed to escape and cheat the black hand of death, we shall never see them again. Where we are going, there is only despair and the yoke of slavery, I suppose."

Her mind seemed to take fiendish delight in recalling the faces of her kinsmen and friends, and they flashed before her, as fleeting ghosts haunting the realm of the living. She saw her father and her brother; her uncle's mirthful face as he laughed at some jest. There was the dark-headed Cuthwine, whose appearance was so different from that of his fellows; Swithulf the Miller's son, the brother of Swithwyn, the maid who had escaped the dire fate of thralldom; and many other familiar faces, some more dear than others, but all sadly lamented.

And then there was Osric the Isensmith's son with his merry temperament and knightly manner. He had asked her for a favor which he could take with him to the fields of Gondor far away to bring him good fortune and fond memories. Even now, after so many months of fear, she could remember that day as if it had been told for many years in one of the beloved songs of the Eorlingas. She had pulled the blue woven ribbon from her braid and given it to him, and he had bent down and kissed her hand in gratitude and farewell. Then he had mounted his horse, a fine steed of dappled gray, and he had gone as quickly as he had come.

Her heart ached. Her father would never clasp his strong, warm arms about her, his loving embrace filling her with peace and security. She would never look upon the tall and lanky form of her brother nor walk beside him as they did their chores or roamed about the countryside. Now she felt guilty about all the many times she had argued with Eadfrid about silly little things. If only he stood before her! Then she would rush into his arms, shower him with affection and apologies and swear never to quarrel with him again.

But she would never have that opportunity. Again she wondered if she had wasted her life in childish squabbles over petty trifles when she could have been kinder and more understanding of her kin. Her heart shattering, Elfhild began to weep.

Then to her mind, which was still reeling from the sudden resurgence of grief, came the seductive thoughts of figs, apricots, dates and sweet tea. O, a curse be upon her disloyal stomach which was making her a traitor against her will!


	18. Lorien's Gifts

Chapter Written by Elfhild and Angmar

The clouds of darkness grew ragged here so far to the West, and so a little more light could be seen in the hours of day, and the watches of the night were not quite so evil. The evening before, the Riders of Rohan and the Cavalry of Dol Amroth had at last crossed the White Mountains, venturing into Drúwaith Iaur, the wastes of a land nearly forgotten. Men had once lived here but now few dwelt in the grasslands and scattered forests. The land lay undisturbed in its austerity, but though birds would sing and insects would hum, a heavy, foreboding silence seemed to lie over the desolate territory.

Though they were alone, sometimes the cavalrymen thought they felt unseen eyes peering at them from among the shadows of the trees. Stranger still, sometimes they thought they could hear the distant pounding of muffled drums... Could it be some remnant of the legendary Púkel men who had survived and still dwelt here? Yet the men's better judgment deemed that no one was there and 'twas but a trick of the imagination. Surely such imaginings were caused by the rigors of the trail, and were nothing more...

Now the host would halt this late afternoon, having traveled seven leagues from the mountain pass that day. Tomorrow the men would ride again, heading northeast towards the River Adorn, every day shortening the distance between them and the beleaguered land of Rohan. Ten days had passed since they had parted with their friends at Dol Amroth. Their horses had thundered across the enemy-unoccupied region of Southern Gondor north of the Green Hills. The combined host of cavalry led by Éomer and Prince Imrahil galloped northeast towards the pass while the Gondorian foot-soldiers commanded by Aragorn and Faramir marched north, braving the rugged foothills and paths of the White Mountains.

The women and children had followed, but the men felt that it was far too dangerous for them to make the whole journey. Thus these refugees, including Lothíriel, Prince Imrahil's daughter, had been bidden to remain under guard in the hidden vales and places of shelter in the mountains. After exchanging tearful goodbyes, the grim warriors had continued onward towards Helm's Deep.

The folk of Gondor had been loath to leave the fight in the South and forsake their land for a time, especially the Prince of Dol Amroth. The City by the Sea had not fallen and, after a long and bloody siege, the forces of Mordor had given up the fight, turning and running like cringing dogs with their tails tucked between their legs. Now while the cowardly orcs, Easterlings and Southrons fled towards the east, the Rohirrim and Gondorians raced towards the west and north instead of giving chase and pricking them on from behind by sword and spear point. Was it wisdom or folly to allow the enemy to escape so easily instead of harrying them back across the River Anduin where they belonged? For good or for ill, it still chafed against the passionate love and loyalty which the men held for their land.

Yet, it was argued, that while the forces of the West could fight for the South until all strength was depleted, still the North was left with but a small defense. Perhaps the enemy had left Gondor to turn their full assault upon Rohan and the Rohirric homeguard would soon be worsted by the forces which encroached upon their eastern borders. If the enemy gained a foothold in Rohan and controlled the Fords of Isen, the black flood would sweep northward through Eriador, even as far north as the Havens. Then all resistance would be pushed into the sea and the Dark Lord's victory over the West would be complete, His iron rule stretching from the Cape of Andrast in southern Gondor even unto the frozen Cape of Forochel in the ice wastes of the Far North.

And, too, the retreat could have been a ruse, drawing the diminished armies of the West into a trap, where they would be encircled and utterly worsted by a greater force. Then death or slavery was a surety. So were they cowards then to have run from an undetermined fear, even though Rohan was in desperate need of aid? Some felt there was something strange indeed about the flight of the dark hordes, some devilry of which they knew not. Great unease had come over the mind of Gandalf the White, and it seemed to him that the bitter eastern breeze bore the foreshadowing of horrible evil. The decision to go north was a hard one, and many were granted leave to stay behind and pursue the retreating enemy.

But now here the host of Rohan and Dol Amroth were, thundering across a dark green waste of isolated land, over seventy leagues from the Fords of Isen. Their comrades, the foot-soldiers of Gondor, were crossing the mountains at the same time, making slow but steady progress towards Helm's Deep. Both forces, though they were leagues and leagues apart, wondered what their eyes would behold when they once again looked upon the darkened plains of Rohan.

When the Riders had made early camp, King Éomer had issued orders that any who wished might take their bows and quivers and set off to hunt the wild harts and other game which roamed the brushy grasslands. The larders of the host had grown sparse during the long ride from the South, and though he did not wish to delay, Éomer knew that a brief respite from the grueling journey would prove beneficial to all the men.

Though the hours between halting and evening did not provide much opportunity for the men to hunt, still many of the warriors had returned with braces of birds and coneys and fat bucks and does. Venison stew, roast venison and other fresh meats along with such herbs as some of the men had gathered would provide a most welcome repast after the dry trail bread, wine and water of the wearisome ride. Hunting would bring relief from the monotony of the long journey. Though the stay was a brief one, still spirits would be strengthened and men could set about the doubtful quest of returning home, if indeed there was any home to which to return.

The soft sounds of tethered horses nickering and stamping their hooves, men talking in quiet tones and the strains of songs sung in rich voices mingled with the chirpings of insects. The ground was lit with the flickering light of campfires, casting a cheerful glow in the soft, peaceful gloom of dusk. King Éomer was well pleased with the brief leave he had granted to the men, for he knew that their spirits had dampened over the many miles, and the hunting forays aided greatly in filling their stomachs and brightening their mood.

The original éored which had set off from Grenefeld that March had seen much combat. Many were the men who fell bravely fighting the foe in the South and would never return to their beloved fields and hills. Over the bloody passage of time, survivors from éoreds devastated in the fighting had added to that battle-hardened number. Not one man in the combined host of Rohan and Dol Amroth was free of the sorrow and anger caused by death's heavy hand. Everyone had lost kinsmen and friends from the merciless blows of the enemy. Many had been slain upon the field, a number had died from their wounds after battles, some had been captured and what had befallen others no one knew.

In the camp of the men of Grenefeld, Osric the Isensmith's son, his brother Oslaf and Swithulf the Miller's son sat about their fire and dined upon the fruits of the day's labor.

"You did well in the hunt this afternoon," Osric complimented Swithulf. "That was a fine doe you brought down with your arrow!"

"And you did not fare so poorly yourself," commented Swithulf. "Those were quite tender partridges that you flushed out. No more skillful shots have I seen than that in many a day! Right through the heart."

"The éored certainly enjoyed the venison and it was only right that it be shared with everyone. What could we have done with a whole carcass of hart, unless, of course," Swithulf looked at Osric, who was a great giant of a man and proud of his bulging muscles earned from long hours at the blacksmith's forge, "you could eat the whole beast!"

Beaming broadly, Osric exclaimed, "If I had enough of an appetite, I think I could have, but," he grinned, "I did not want to be selfish and let you poor, thin lads go in want!"

Oslaf, the younger brother, was only thirteen. He was not so proficient with the bow as the other two, who were in their late teens. He felt that his contributions to the larder had been overlooked during the jesting banter of the others.

"I thought those fish I caught were quite pleasant to eat," he added, a slight look of hurt upon his face.

"Aye," laughed his brother, always taking delight in teasing him, "but you were the only one who ate them!"

"I was quite satisfied with the fish," Oslaf defended his hunting, "and I might add I found the strawberries growing down near the small brook very tasty. After so long with nothing sweet to put in my mouth, I found them a most tempting dessert. Now if there had only been fresh milk, I would lie here the rest of the evening, content with the memories of a most delightful supper."

"In your imagination you may drink the warm, sweet milk fresh from the cow, but my taste runs to buttermilk, sour and rich," commented Osric.

"Buttermilk and strawberries do not mix," Oslaf exclaimed, joking.

"They mix better than fish and strawberries!" scoffed his brother.

"I am very fond of fish," replied Oslaf, defending his choice of game.

"You are, are you?" Osric winked at Swithulf.

"Aye, quite," replied Oslaf. "I must say I would rather eat that than venison any day. Fish have a light, delicate flavor, whereas venison is often a bit too gamy and strong for me."

"Too gamy?" exclaimed Osric, pretending wounded dignity. "You like the weak taste of fish when you could have deer meat?"

"Aye, I do!"

"Well, then, perhaps you would like to catch some more!"

With that remark, Osric and Swithulf rushed Oslaf, pinning him to the ground where he lay. Then laughing, their faces contorted in mirth, they picked him up, and carried him to the stream nearby. After swinging him back and forth, they cast him out into the pool cut by the water.

"You are villains, cowards and knaves!" Oslaf sputtered. "You dogs! You tossed me in boots and all! When I get out of here, there will be trouble!"

"Trouble for you, my lad, for we will simply toss you back in again," replied Osric. "You smell as bad as your fish!" Both Osric and Swithulf roared in laughter.

"So you think I smell like fish. Neither of you smell so good yourselves! Perhaps you would care to join me and wash some of your stench off."

"Only if you drive away the fish!" laughed Osric.

"I think, older brother, that your loud mouth has done that for me!"

"I hope so," said he, "for, younger brother, though your tastes in dining are lacking, you are right about my smell, for I do stink, covered with trail dust and sweat. Come, Swithulf, let us first wash our clothing and then go for a swim with my brother and his fish."

"Would you please allow me to come out of the water now? I think my boots are ruined," complained Oslaf.

"Only if you ask me as would a squire to a knight, which is what you still are, my lad."

Oslaf got to his feet and then knelt again in the water, beginning to speak in grand terms of mock humility. "O most gracious liege, would you grant your humble squire leave to remove his presence from this watery trough and walk once more upon dry land?"

"Your boon is granted." Osric feigned a solemn expression. "Get your wet pelt out now! Your clothes have already been laundered. Let them hang upon the bushes and even though they will not be dry by morning and will be wet when we put them back on, at least they will be clean."

"It would be well for us to wash ours, too," suggested Swithulf.

After washing their clothing in the stream and hanging them on bushes to dry, the three Riders all had soapless baths and then swam and splashed in the deep pool beneath sheltering trees. "Oh no!" cried Oslaf when at last they came upon the bank. "Worms! Worms! They are crawling all over me!"

"They are not crawling," exclaimed Osric, looking down at the creatures, some as long as two inches. "They are leeches and have set their suckers upon us!"

"Leeches!" Swithulf scowled in disgust as he looked down and beheld a number of dark shapes attached to his legs. "They seek a meal without paying for it!"

"Brother! Why did I feel nothing when they attached themselves so unwelcome to my body?" Oslaf asked.

Osric reached down and touched the slug-like body of one of the leeches. "They are much like a spider when she goes after her prey. They pierce the skin with their teeth and extrude some mild numbing poison into the wound, and," he laughed, "we do not feel a thing."

"What do we do, brother? How will we ever get them off?"

"Well, if you wish," Osric teased, "you could leave them on until they have had their fill and then they will drop off. That is what many healers recommend doing when sickness befalls."

"Get them off of me!" Oslaf shouted, both frightened and angry.

Osric and Swithulf laughed. "Unless you want to stay here all night and shriek like a maid, you will come back to our camp. A little salt will dampen the spirits of our slimy friends the leeches."

"They are no friends of mine!" Oslaf protested.

"Oh?" Osric remarked, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you liked all creatures of the water." He turned and then he and Swithulf began walking back to the camp.

"Osric!" cried Oslaf plaintively. "OSRIC!" he wailed.

"Sleep with the fish and the leeches!" Osric laughed.

Oslaf walked to where his boots sat near the stream, and after picking one of them up, he threw it, striking his brother squarely across the back.

After returning to the camp, Osric showed his brother how to use salt to remove the leeches and all three rid themselves of the troublesome creatures. Then, taking clean breeches from their saddle bags, they dressed and sat around the campfire.

"You owe me a pair of boots, Osric. I will tell Father what you did to me and he will be very angry."

"Always crying to him like a little whelp, you are," Osric grumbled. He loved his younger brother dearly but he loved to torment him just as well. "But I will repay you." His voice grew grim. "Poor Cuthwine, ere he was dragged beneath the hordes, slew five orcs at the Battle of the Fords of Ethring. As he lay dying, I found him and he entrusted me with his boots right before he died. He said that he no longer needed them. They are yours now. Remember they belonged to a brave man and do him honor by trying to walk in his footsteps." He tried to hide the emotion he felt about Cuthwine's death behind a jest. "Your feet are certainly large enough!"

"While it is true that my feet are as big as his were, I can only hope my spirit will someday match his." Greatly moved by the gift, Oslaf murmured softly, "I doubt that I can ever walk in Cuthwine's footsteps, brother, but I will try."

All the men felt both grieved at thoughts of their fallen comrade and deep pride at the gallantry he had displayed ere he was slain. Osric was proud of his younger brother. Still he had laughed when, only two months before, the youth had been almost beside himself with joy at the sight of two light blonde hairs on his chin. How proud Oslaf had been at these first heralds of a beard!

Gruffly, Osric ordered, "Go to sleep, boy. It will be time to show that soon enough." Sleep was swift to come to Oslaf but Osric and Swithulf sat talking quietly about the fire.

"You are very proud of your brother and you have good reason to be," said Swithulf. "He did not shirk his duty in the South."

"Aye, the lad fought nobly and bravely but he has much yet to learn of war. Ere we left for Pelennor, I thought of him still as a lad, but I find that in spite of his boyishness, he has learned too soon the bitter harshness of battle. Father did not want him to go, but Oslaf insisted and Father could not deny him that request. Whether his decision was for good or for ill, I cannot say, only that I wish to see my brother live. Whether I survive or not is not so important, for Oslaf is the apple of his father's eye. Father is on picket duty tonight, a lonely vigil, but one that is necessary. He depends upon me to watch after the boy when we go into battle."

"Osric, I know the pride your father has for the lad and I know that it is well-placed." He grew silent a while and commented sadly, "The nights are especially bad. I worry about my mother and Swithwyn my sister, and I fear greatly when I remember our families, loved ones and friends back at home. When I lie down to sleep, I will look up at the stars and take comfort thinking of all the bright stars whom we have left at home. Their devotion is as constant as the lights in the heavens."

"I think of many," Osric mused, and both men grew sad and quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts. Throughout all the time that the éored had been gone, Osric had been able to gain strength by thinking of sunshine and green fields and his village back in the Eastfold. He grinned as he envisioned the innocent maiden Elfhild running towards him across a daisy-filled meadow: her smiling face, the tawny dust of freckles upon her cheeks, eyes half-open, long lashes shielding them from the blazing summer sun. Her hair glistened, the yellow of its fire lightening to pale cream as it reflected the light.

And then from a jetty dark pit where fear and torment are birthed in the minds of all men came an ugly vision. Sorrowfully looking into his eyes, Elfhild pushed a dirty lock of hair from her face as she pled with him to rescue her from an unspeakable torment. Crouching on the floor of a filthy shed, she clutched the torn remains of her dress to her bosom. Blotches of blue and black mottled her swollen face. Streaks of blood oozed down her back from where she had been whipped. He groaned at the horrible vision. What foul portent of doom had he beheld? Never could such a thing be true!

Little did he know that on the same day when the forces of the West had left Dol Amroth, the village of Grenefeld had been raided and sacked in the wee hours of morning. All that the people had ever known had been destroyed in less than an hour. The women and children - save for Swithwyn and a few others who had managed to escape - had been led off by the cruel hand of slavery.

Swithulf coughed and brought Osric out of his black reverie. "You seem grievously troubled tonight."

Osric stared into the fire, his face a shadowy mask. "Aye, I am. My thoughts have been dark." He would say nothing of the gloomy portent which he had seen in his mind, for no doubt it meant nothing.

A moment of silence passed, and then Swithulf spoke again. "Soon we shall come once again to our own land, but what we shall find there, we know not. Perhaps we shall find the Mark utterly engulfed by the hosts of the enemy."

"I do not like to think of that, though it is a most grievous possibility," sighed Osric. "However, perhaps we dare yet to hope. Maybe we shall return in time to stay the enemy host and drive them back ere they thrust too deeply into the Mark. But even then, things might go ill for us, for our village would be in the path of the advancing foe marching through the Eastfold."

"Perhaps help will come from unexpected places," Swithulf suggested hopefully. "Remember those rumors we heard back in the South that Aragorn was going to send messengers upon swift horses to the Elvish lands in the North. The riders were to go through the same mountain pass that we did yesterday and make haste to the Elves, bearing tidings of the war and urgent appeals for aid. Though these messengers were sent ere the siege of Dol Amroth and the great victory there, still we could most desperately use the assistance of the Elves. I only hope that should they answer the summons that they will not arrive after it is too late."

Osric laughed derisively. "I do not believe every rumor that flies through the wind. Besides, Elves do not join with men to fight their battles. They keep to their own haunted forests and have no concern with what happens to anyone other than to themselves. They are strange folk, devious sorcerers skilled in magick, and to be avoided at all cost."

"That is true," said Swithulf, remembering the legends of Dwimordene and the webs of misty enchantment that were said to be spun by the Sorceress of the Golden Wood. "But surely not even they would be so callous as to abandon the West to darkness."

"We can hope, for hope is as cheap as are rumors," Osric laughed bitterly. "But as to whether they will come to our aid yet remains to be seen. Yet I will trust more in my own stout spear and sharp sword, not to those of the Elves!"

"War has changed us all," lamented Swithulf.

Later Oslaf awakened from his sleep with a loud scream, escaping into wakefulness from a nightmare in which he had been caught in the jaws of some great black monster in the distant and unknown Sea. As he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he sat up. "Osric! Osric! You missed a leech on my leg! Come get it off!" he cried, still half asleep.

"Well, maybe war has not changed all of us yet," Osric laughed grimly. After walking over to his brother, he turned and called back to Swithulf. "'Tis only a stick that bore into his leg as he slept." Looking to Oslaf, he assured, "Go back to sleep, brother. All is well."

At last slumber came upon the three of them and most all of the camp save the pickets and the officers, who still sat around their campfires, deliberating strategy and tactics. Far away, many leagues to the east, Elfhild had cried herself to sleep and now lay tossing and turning upon her worn brown cloak. Her dream-thoughts were filled with the faces of friends and kin, which flitted through her mind like faintly luminescent ghost-moths. Then, mingling with the memories, came wistful fantasies of dates, figs and sweet tea, and she imagined a myriad of delicacies and sweetmeats which lay spread out on a table before her. It was a most frustrating plight, for she could only choose one thing to eat and the dream changed again ere she was able to make up her mind.

Elffled lay beside her, quietly dreaming of being rescued from an evil, leering orc by a tall, blonde Rohirric warrior wielding a great sword. Slowly the handsome Rider turned into a tawny-faced Easterling who kissed her long and slowly, and the kiss was much more passionate and appealing than those bestowed upon her in the past by the many nameless men in her world of dreams. She moaned softly in her sleep, the corners of her lips twitching up in the faintest of smiles as the Easterling's strong hands clasped the sides of her face in the most gentle of embraces.

Like two leaves in the breeze, she and her lover swayed together, their forms caught in the currents of passion. His hands drifting to the back of her head, his fingers wove themselves under and over her tresses, the subtle stirring of her hair tickling her scalp and causing her to sigh into his mouth...

The next morning when Elffled awoke, she hated herself for the dream she had the night before, but still she could not help a tiny, wayward smile when she thought of those warm, eager lips upon hers. She would never tell her sister, though, about the dark phantom who had intruded upon her dreams, for she was far too ashamed. Horrified and disgusted at herself, she resented the Easterlings even more and assuaged her guilt by deeming them all as evil sorcerers skilled in the arts of enchantment. Obviously, the man who had ravished her lips had put a spell of wantonness upon her and that was the true meaning of the strange sleep fantasy which had come upon her most unbidden and unwelcomed.

* * *

NOTES

Lórien is the name of the healing garden of Valinor. Irmo, one of the Fëanturi of the Valar, is its keeper and he is the master of dreams and visions.

Dwimordene is the name the Rohirrim give Lothlórien.


	19. A Memory by the Wayside

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Sixteen days had passed since Grenefeld was raided and now it was the night of June 9. The captives camped on one side of the Road in a little field shaded by scattered trees. The orcs patrolled the outskirts of the camp, keeping an ever vigilant watch. The Easterling cavalry troop under command of Sergeant Utana rested for the eve on the other side of the Road. Several miles south of them rose the dark boles of the pines of the Druadan Forest and the rocky summit of the Beacon-hill of Amon Dîn.

The Easterling cavalry had been traveling with this group of orcs and their captives for five days. The orc captains had resented the presence of the Easterlings but said nothing openly to them and grumbled only to their fellows. The women had felt a growing tension between their mannish and orcish captors and were greatly relieved that no direct confrontations had yet erupted.

"They lord it over us as they always have," Captain Zgurpu snarled as he shared a vessel of draught with Sergeant Glokal.

"None of them appreciate us," agreed the sergeant. "I'd sooner stick a blade between their ribs as speak to them!"

"'Cooperate with our allies,'" Captain Zgurpu spat out the words contemptuously, "that's what they tell us, but what's allies today can just as well be enemies tomorrow."

"And it's always them what gets the glory while we poor uruks get the guts."

"And there ain't nothing we can do about it," the captain growled. He took a long swill from the mouth of the wineskin and then passed it to the sergeant.

The sergeant's voice went lower. "We'd be better off if we were free of them all and acted as our own agents!"

"Don't say talk like that," the captain warned. "Even if we did, we'd be found soon enough and you know how that goes. But still I cannot complain too much. We eat, don't we? The booty is good, most times."

"When as we can get it and don't have to divvy up so much with the Higher Ups!"

"But I don't like them this close. You can smell the fear on them. They reek of it. Inside, they are afraid of us, but they'd never admit it. These Easterlings and Southrons think they are so damned important and regard us as brainless idiots fit only to go out and get killed for them!" His yellow eyes gleaming hatred, Captain Zgurpu lifted his fist in the air and shook it.

"I know, Captain, and more's the pity," the sergeant agreed after drinking greedily of the draught. "This new one, this Sergeant Utana, I don't care what they say. He's here to usurp our authority! Detached to help us?" he laughed disdainfully. "Help us do what? There ain't an enemy soldier within a hundred miles of here. Are they afraid the strawhead women and their squalling brats will attack us? They're too afraid to do anything!"

"Garn!" the captain exclaimed. "When you come right down to it, I see through it all too well. They don't trust each other any more than we trust them!" His brutish face lit up in wonder as though discovering a great truth previously unnoticed. "Whilst we escort the prisoners, the cavalry sergeant and his troop are to guard the women from any stragglers and skulkers that meander along the road. And for that matter," he added, "guard them from their own cavalry patrols!"

"You think that what's it, captain?" asked the sergeant in amazement.

"May be. You notice none of the women and girls are over at their camp tonight. I think mayhap our 'friend' Sergeant Utana has put the quietus on those nightly dallyings to give out their wine and sweetmeats. Anyway, only five more days and we're rid of them all!"

Indeed it was so. Alarmed at what he perceived to be a growing warmness between the captives and his men, Sergeant Utana had given his troop a stern lecture and quoted the Directives in detail. "Lest you weaken, though, and give in to temptation, my orders will take you out of harm's way. No more socializing with the captives! No interfering with the orcs in command! We will aid either the captives or their guards and that, gentlemen, will be all!"

But no reminders of stern Directives could prevent the smiles that appeared on tawny faces as brown eyes met blue in furtive glances and knowing looks were exchanged. Many a woman or maid of the Mark flushed deep crimson when brown eyes flashed and lips silently mouthed, "You are most fair." No directives could ever still the longings of the heart.

Night deepened over the camp and the fountains of orc draught seemed inexhaustible. Strong drink had inspired the orcs to sing and dance around their campfires, chanting their strange tribal songs. Sleep was never easy for the captives, for the regular patrolling of the orcs always made for uneasy rest. This night, though, was worse, for the orcish bard had found fresh inspiration and had composed what he considered his finest work. As he began to recite it, he beat upon a drum while the others passed around skins of draught.

If I were a chieftain,  
I'd have me a throne  
How would I build it?  
I'd build it of bone!  
The frame would be thigh bones  
And rest on stout pegs  
The seat would be elf skin,  
And skulls would be legs  
I'd fight for my title  
And carve up a few  
My dagger would be sharp,  
My bow made of yew  
There'd be a circlet of teeth  
That sat on my head  
Strung together with hair  
From enemies long dead  
There would be furs  
Over the floor of my den  
And filled with fine wenches,  
The daughters of Men  
Someday we'll all drink  
In Edoras' fine hall  
Men will all serve us  
And orc's way be law  
No more the outcast  
For we orcs are strong  
They'll pay us in blood  
For every last wrong  
The bad times are over  
And our time is here  
A few fights before us  
And it's victory this year!

"Elfhild," Elffled hissed in a whisper, "does he never tire of his hideous racket?"

The two sisters lay upon their cloaks, facing each other. Though it was not discernible in the night, beneath the eyes of both were dark circles of weariness. About their heads were bird's nests of tangled, filthy hair which had not seen a comb in many days. Each was a shameful sight to the other, for to look in the face of her sister was just the same as peering into a looking glass. However, they had more to be concerned about than the grime which stained their bodies.

Elffled was in a foul mood and felt quite surly, though neither her sister nor any of the others in her troop were to blame. Each time she had almost drifted off to sleep, the riotous orcs would sing again and she would be dragged unwillingly back to wakefulness.

"Oh, Elffled, I do not know," Elfhild whimpered. "They stop for a while to catch their breaths and then they start up again with renewed strength."

"I hate them all," Elffled muttered. "Worthless creatures, good for naught but murder and malice."

"They cannot sing either," noted Elfhild, trying to be witty. "If pleasant voices as well as fighting skills were prized traits of a warrior, then methinks the forces of the Dark Lands would be greatly lessened."

"Then the whole world would be better off," commented her sister with a wry laugh.

"Silence!" a corporal barked out. "Silence in the camp! Not a peep out of you!"

"They seem to hear everything," Elffled moaned. "I hate them all."

"Me too," nodded Elfhild.

The orcish balladry continued until the bard's fellows began to complain. Then with a great outcry of grunts, growls and hisses, they bombarded him with scraps of rancid meat, bone and clods of dung, and his melodies were stilled for the night.

At last sleep came to the captives, though it was a restless one and oft would a woman awaken and look around in bewilderment, thinking she still heard the songs of the orcs. Then, when all seemed peaceful and at last their minds slipped into fitful dreams, the sounds of loud wailing roused the captives from their slumber. It was the darkest part of the night ere the dreary dawn and sleep would not come again.

"What is it? What is it?" Elfhild asked frantically, frightened by the plaintive cries which seemed all too dreadfully close.

With a grunt, Elffled rose up slightly upon her elbows and looked about, but she could see little in the darkness. Yet her ears did not fail her, nor did the ears of the other captives. Several ells away from her, she sensed her aunt and the others in her troop stirring about and murmuring, each one asking the same questions that her sister had asked her. There was a commotion slowly beginning to brew in the camp and they could hear the rising complaints of the orc guards.

"What is that damn moaning? Who dares break the command not to make noise in the camp until the horn has sounded? What is the meaning of this disturbance?" the orcs on duty cried in their coarse, snarling voices.

"Shut up or I'll call the sergeant!" ordered an irritated guard.

They heard another wail, a woman's cry, but savage in its sorrow. In the superstitious minds of the two sisters, they imagined that the sound must be like unto the cries of some unholy creature of the night or demon who lurked in shadowy places, in dreary forests or in haunted mountain caves. A shudder traveled down the spines of both Elfhild and Elffled like fingers of ice and they drew closer to each other.

There was another sobbing keen and then the harsh command of a guard.

"We'll hear no more of this! Close your trap! He is gone!"

A pitiful shriek rose up in answer, and then the captives heard the voice of Breguswith crying wildly.

"He is not! He is not! He cannot be!"

"Garn! He is!"

"He is asleep! Go away! Let me hold and comfort him!"

"All the comfort between now and the Return will do him no good! He's gone, you stupid wench, and there's no comfort where he is!"

"He will awaken soon, and he will be hungry when he does. Go away, go away! Give us peace!"

"Get up!"

"See what a fine lad he is! He is a good baby and cries little. He will cause no trouble. I pray you grant me privacy to feed him. He is so small now and he eats so little. Let my sweet boy nurse in peace and then slumber!"

"That's what he's doing now - sleeping forever. Get up, you mad wench!"

"No!" the woman screamed. "He is in a deep slumber but he still lives!"

"Mad fool," the captives heard the orc exclaim. Then came the sounds of blows and screams, a low moan and all was quiet.

The twins and the other captives in their troop could see torches moving from the direction of the cavalry camp across the road. Soon came the sound of hoof beats as riders approached.

"Officers," they heard orcish voices exclaim. "Officers approach!"

There were the sounds of muttering in low tones amidst the orc pickets on duty.

"Hold aloft the torch! Give me light by which to see!" the captives heard one of the Easterlings order.

"The whore is mad, sir!"

"No doubt that is true but will striking her bring her back to lucidity?"

"Sir, as you say. She will be hit no more!"

"Let me tend to her, lads, and my men will tend to the... other."

Disappointment was upon the faces of some of the orcs as they realized the meaning of the Easterling's words.

"By all common sense," Sergeant Utana thought, "they are ghouls, just like it is said! They have no hesitancy to eat the flesh of a dead child and, doubtless, they would relish ours just as well! Were it not for their fear of their Master, they would turn upon us! If that fear should ever lessen... May the Gods protect us!"

Sergeant Utana looked down at the woman sitting on the ground, clutching her dead child to her bosom, and then across to the orc sergeant and his lads who clustered about him. By the torchlight, he could see the hatred and fear on their faces. Behind them were any number of orcs, their eyes gleaming in the darkness. He could not count their number.

"Never let them see your fear," he told himself he began to sweat. "Brutish creatures," he thought. "They would fight each other for the chance of fresh man's-flesh, though it be scant. Gods, how I hate them!"

He felt the temptation to draw his sword, but he knew that was a mistake. He must show them that he was not afraid. Most of all, he must show them that he was in command, though by token formality their own captain was in charge. "No mistakes," he thought, "no mistakes."

"Sergeant," he told the orc, "forget this piece of filth. My men will bury it and put a cairn of rocks on the grave. Then you and your corporals, come over to our camp. No doubt you would enjoy a change from orc draught and we have much wine. I shall extend my invitation to your captain personally."

"My sword," Sergeant Utana thought as he felt his hand instinctively edge dowanward to the hilt. He caught himself, though. "Surely they would not be so bold or foolish as to risk their all for the taste of a little flesh."

"Wine?" the orc sergeant asked in haughty tones. "You invite us to drink wine with you? Are you sure, Sergeant, that it is not a breach of some military protocol?" he snarled as his lips curled back.

Sergeant Utana wondered, "Will it be mutiny next? Are we to die here because of a question about a dead baby?" If it came to that, he knew that the two troopers with him could only take down only a few of the orcs. He must not let this situation disintegrate into that.

"Yes, Sergeant, we would all be quite honored to have such brave lads as yourselves share a cup or two with us before we set forth again on the eastward journey. And I might add," he went on, hoping he appeared to have the nonchalance which he did not feel, "the report that I send to the main army will commend all of you for your excellent care of this valued merchandise. Because you are all loyal lads and do your duty, I shall also recommend that your bounties be increased."

The orc sergeant's lips curled into an awkward smile, certain he had won some victory over the Easterling. "So much you will give for so little?"

"What is a cup of wine?" Sergeant Utana replied with a shrug and a casual smile. "I offer it not as payment but as a toast by one soldier to another, as comrades in arms."

"Sergeant, it seems we have an understanding," the orc sergeant laughed. "I will accept it as such and drink with you." The orc gloated to himself, "It is good to see a proud man of the East forced to give a little for a change. Of course he flatters me, but he and I both realize it! He is cunning enough to know that it wouldn't be well to make us feel as though we had lost face. I will grudgingly give him his due for that. It is not that I am afraid of him, nar, no, for I have no doubt I could best him in any fight. But why go to the effort when he's willing to give wine and promises more bounty! This duty will be over in less than a week and soon enough we will be back to battle."

"To Order, Rule and Respect!" Sergeant Utana exclaimed. Of course, he was only parrotting one of the stock slogans, but now since the situation had cooled off, he could relax. The orc captain evidentally accepted his enthusasm, for he echoed:

"Order, Rule and Respect!"

Sergeant Utana forced a smile, for he could not bring himself to shake hands with such a foul brute. "Now let me talk to the woman. I have no wish to hear her whimpering and wailing all the way to Minas Tirith. I have a phial of draught in my camp that will keep her quiet all the way and cause you lads no trouble. I will have my men bring the woman with us, and then after she has been calmed down, I will turn her back over to you."

"If you can get her to cease her constant ranting, you will satisfy us well enough," the orc sergeant replied.

Sergeant Utana turned back to Breguswith. He hoped his voice sounded cold, for he felt great pity for the woman, but he did not want the orcs to sense that. "Woman, take my word. Your child is dead. It is no trick to deceive you. The babe has been gone for hours and is long cold. You hold a dead infant in your arms, and though your breasts were full to overflowing with milk, you could not bring him life!"

"No! He is not!" she screamed as she clutched her head and tried to tear the hair from her scalp.

"I have seen to the burial of your child," Utana calmly told her. "You have no fear there. By my order, his grave will be undisturbed. You have my word of honor as an officer for that."

"But he is not dead, I tell you!"

"Come, woman. No harm shall befall you."

With a look to the orcs, he helped her to her feet. "Tell me about your child," he said to her. "What was his name?"

She looked up at him, her tears glistening in the light of the torch. "His name was..."

Those were the last words that were clear to Elfhild and Elffled as Sergeant Utana led Breguswith aside.

The captives watched from a distance as two Easterling troopers prepared a cairn for the baby. When the last rock was placed upon the small grave, an officer lifted the distraught mother to his saddle and then mounted behind her. She moaned piteously and buried her face in her hands. When the captives last caught sight of her, the officer was steadying her in the saddle as the torches meandered away across the road to the cavalry camp.

The camp settled down at last and it seemed that the captives had scarcely closed their eyes ere the horn was sounded for breakfast. After the sparce breakfast had been consumed, once again the captives were tied in their places in the column. This was the same monotonous ritual that they had been forced to follow every morning for over a fortnight. Near the roadside they saw the freshly turned dirt and a cairn of stone over the small barrow of the dead child. As they passed that lonely place, they wept in grief and sadness, mourning for their friend and the loss of her baby.

Breguswith did not march with the rest of the captives that day, and when they saw her again, she was riding atop one of the Easterlings' horses. Cloaked and hunched over, she gently swayed in the saddle as one of the men led her horse. She neither knew nor care any more who she was or where she was bound. Her mind was lost in a misty haze of flowery oblivion, the calming draught made from the sap of poppies greatly dulling the keen edge of her sorrow. Yet still the other captives mourned in her stead.

And so another uneventful day's march was recorded in the officers' books.


	20. Dreams of Conquest

Chapter Written by Angmar

It was an hour after dawn on June the 14th. After two days of assaults by Mordorian forces, the fortress of Helm's Deep still stood; the besieged Gondorian army and Rohirric homeguard still defiant. The men inside the fortress had vowed a fight to the death, but they were bereft of all except hope. The bulk of the Rohirrim cavalry and Prince Imrahil's Dol Amroth cavalry was believed still to be somewhere to the West. Even if couriers had been dispatched to the fortress with word of Éomer and Prince Imrahil, the besieging army of Mordor would have prevented the delivery of any message.

Throughout the night, the combined host of the survivors of the South and the homeguard of Rohan had fought along the Deeping Wall and the outer wall of the Burg. Though sorely outnumbered, they had fended off the attackers, throwing down scaling ladders from the walls, sending orcs and men to their screaming deaths below. The fighting had been desperate, but the men had learned from their costly lessons in the South. The sieges there had been deadly ones, and the men of the West had been forced to employ other tactics. Great vats of boiling water were dumped on the enemies trying to scale the wall, scalding them and forcing them to relinquish their holds upon the ladders.

With the dawn of the second day, the hosts of Rohan and Dol Amroth were still nowhere to be seen. Both exhausted from the nights before, Aragorn and Gandalf stood talking atop the walls looking out over the Deeping Coomb. The air seemed to vibrate with great thundering crashes as they listened to the battering rams pounding against the Great Gate of the fortress.

Maugoth Tahmtan of Khand, commander of the Mordor Army in the absence of the Morgul Lord and his Lieutenant, had slept little the night before. His field headquarters had been bustling all night with couriers bearing dispatches and aides writing down responses. About the portable field table in his pavilion, his staff was gathered with him, all looking as haggard as he. They were all apprehensive; they expected the arrival of the Witch-king himself and that was often a harrowing enough experience.

"Just get the discussion over with and leave quickly, please," Tahmtan hoped.

Although the Black Captain was always polite and very efficient, the general had never been comfortable in his presence, and often after his commander had gone, Maugoth Tahmtan felt a sense of frigid condemnation settle over him. Tahmtan never considered himself to be completely in the Morgul Lord's good graces. It was always discomfiting to be in the presence of Gods.

"He must be here now," the nervous officer thought as the tent flap was opened. With much obeisance and bowing from the guards, nine dark hooded and cloaked figures were ushered into the headquarters tent. Upon the hooded head of the tallest was a gleaming crown of steel. Tahmtan noticed that the lieutenant at his right was visibly gulping, and a tremor rushed down Tahmtan's own body as the men all rose to bow to the Holy Lords of Immortality.

"Greetings, Shakh Krithob," Tahmtan said deferentially.

"Broshan," was the reply from the Morgul Lord, while the others with him merely inclined their heads.

"The Others," Tahmtan thought, "why do they come with him this morning? They must wish to study me for some reason, or to intimidate me, or perhaps by their very presence, they want to remind me of the consequences of failure." His temples began to throb with his fear and he felt the palms of his hands grow clammy.

Tahmtan had been almost jubilant when the great, black tents of Angmar and "the Others" were pitched at a goodly distance from his own. Though he would not admit it to his superior, the Maugoth preferred that the Dark King and his coterie were as far away from his headquarters tent as possible. The Witch-king and his Eight companions were formidable enough without the addition of the sable robed Silent Ones, those who never spoke. The Maugoth was never quite certain if they were the same kind as the Dark Captain or something far worse. "Perhaps animated corpses, moving only at their masters' bidding," he thought. He felt a wave of shuddering dread, vast in width and depth, swirl over him and pull him down into a churning whirlpool.

"The Silent Ones," he shuddered.

"Please be seated," Maugoth Tahmtan requested politely.

"Narnûlublat," the Morgul Lord replied and took his seat. The other Eight remained standing in a parallel line behind their lord, four on either side. The general sensed that the Morgul Lord was amused at the distress which the mortals felt in his presence.

Seeing that the Eight would not take seats, the Maugoth and his staff sat down nervously across the table from the Black Captain.

"Your report, Maugoth?" came the deep, resonant voice out of the black hood. His cultured accent was always hard to define.

"My lord, we expect that the Great Gate will be splintered today. The battering ram is very thorough in its work. All is in readiness. After the Gate is destroyed, I do not expect that there will be much work. It will be a simple matter of killing all within."

"Not all."

"Is your novel policy of accepting surrender still in affect?"

"Novel?" the Morgul Lord repeated the word. "Akh, novel, indeed, but slaves are useful, and there must be some kept alive for that. Those of valor," he said, as though pondering some great metaphysical question, "spare them... the Uncrowned King, akh, and those as brave as he... they should be taken alive. Akh, they will be... honored."

Maugoth Tahmtan was very uncomfortable and a stark, chill thought fell upon him like a sudden burst of cold, watery ice. The Maugoth had heard tales of how valiant enemies were often "honored" by the Nine, and if the tales were true, such rewards for bravery were some kind of living death.

"And the Wizard, Mithrandir... take him alive, if you can. He might make for... interesting conversation... and amusement."

The Eighth Nazgûl turned his head slightly, a morbid smile upon his face.

"All will be done that you have ordered, my lord," replied Tahmtan, attempting to sound nonplused and efficient.

"Then that will be all," the Morgul Lord said as he rose to his feet.

In his haste to rise and bow, the lieutenant beside Tahmtan knocked his chair over. Embarrassed, he bowed and left the chair to be righted when the Nine had gone.

"Aanug tor," Angmar said as he turned, and he and the Eight walked towards the open tent flap, a rustle of black cloaks marking their departure.

"Wine!" Tahmtan exclaimed as he sank back into his chair and put a shaky hand to his forehead. He hoped that the Nine were out of hearing range.

In the cavalry camp south of the Deeping Stream and the road, Sergeant Daungha had awakened long before dawn to find himself sitting up in his blankets, frightened and mumbling, "No! No! No!"

He had been dreaming once again of Blue Eyes, and the dream had been both sensual and terrifying. He had at last seduced the Rohirric girl and was on the brink of savoring her fully. Then he had been interrupted by the cavalry Lieutenant, who had rushed into the room, pointing a long, accusing finger at him and shouting, "Directives!" Then a host of troopers had burst into the room, hurling obscenities and brandishing sharp knives and scimitars. They had dragged him to the floor, pummeling him with their fists, while the girl had screamed and clutched the sheets over her unclad body. The dream became murky after that, filled with fire and shining blades, and he had felt a burning dagger plunge deep into his groin.

He had been having repeating dreams about her since that evening almost a fortnight ago when he had forced his mouth upon her unwilling one. Her slender body had been warm as he had pressed her close to him, and she had trembled and struggled in his strong grasp. Her chest had heaved as her breath came in gasps, pushing her full breasts against him. He wondered what delightful treasures of the flesh had her garments hidden. And how he had longed to delve that secret hollow between her legs that his hand had barely been able to touch! He was becoming aroused once again by just the thoughts of that most wondrous of places.

Sergeant Daungha wished he had been in a place where he could have ripped the clothing right off the girl's body and had her on the spot. She would have protested, of course, he thought and laughed. Though he was only twenty-five years of age, he was an experienced lover, having lain with his father's servant girls when he was only fifteen. In his sublime arrogance, he knew that with his skills, the fair-headed one's protests would eventually yield to moans of pleasure. All she needed was a man to tame her and she would soon realize the submissive place of all women and accept the domination of her master.

He had taken women against their will before, back in the East, during the uprisings, but that was before the unwelcomed Directives. The soldiers, even the scholarly Captain Kourosh, had all done the same, unleashing their suppressed passions not yet satisfied by battle, and many had reveled wildly in their capture of girls as young as twelve. That victory had been celebrated for over a week and the women of the conquered city had provided entertainment for them each night. Some of the officers, who had developed a fondness for the wenches and had the coin to pay for their transportation, had sent their lovers back to their own cities and villages to serve as concubines for them upon their return. Sergeant Daungha had not had the rank or the higher pay necessary for this privilege then. With great reluctance, at the end of the week's celebration, he had to relinquish his women. He fain would have taken them all with him when he set off on this war so far away from his home. Then his desires could have been satisfied every lonely night on the long journey.

Every man needed many women to satisfy his needs. His father, though not a man of great wealth, had maintained a number of wives, concubines and slave girls and the eunuchs and servants needed to attend them. His father often said that women were like a beautiful garden of flowers, and it was both the task and the pleasure of their lord to see that each delicate bud was well tended and that the ground was always kept well ploughed and watered.

Many of the women grew to love his father, and he had grown to love them, even taking some of them with him when he went off on forays in war. It was the great pride of his father to relate the story of how his wains and supply wagons had once been cut off from his warriors by enemy raiders. Many of his women had braided and beaded their hair in the fashion of warriors, painted their eyes with kohl and took knives, scimitars, shields and spears and driven off the foe. "My fierce warriors!" he had always called them, and they, among all other women, had always obtained, besides his great love, special privileges and great gifts of jewels, rugs and slaves.

Sergeant Daungha's brothers, both younger and older, now numbered twenty, or at least they did when last he was home. He was was sure, though, that since his father was in the prime of his life, retaining great virility and potency still, that many of the women, especially the younger, had wombs swollen with his father's seed. His sisters, though not quite so numerous, would be given to friendly lords as gifts from his father to ensure these vassals' continuing allegiance to him. His father was well on the way to becoming a great chieftain by virtue of both his might in war and by the sheer number of his prodigy that he had married off to grateful lords.

"Perhaps," Sergeant Daungha thought, "I will someday be a warlord like my father and have many flocks, herds, fields and women and much wealth. Why then do I dream of some peasant girl who is probably so ignorant that she cannot read or write, sing, play a musical instrument, write poetry, and quite possibly has no more knowledge of bathing than would a pig! It is said by those who are wise that the people of the West are uncivilized savages."

What was this pretty but not impressive maiden to him anyway? Nothing. Just a wench that he had seen along the road, a passing fancy. In the fertile plain between the Great Rivers back in the eastern reaches of his land, she would have been nothing more than a slave tending a field somewhere. An officer in the army or a lord would not take notice of her. She was unknowing of any life other than some peasant's sty, ignorant of the world, of life and of men. There were those far fairer in face and in form in his own land than she, riper, more willing wenches who would admire him both for his prowess in battle and in bed. After the victory today, he would go to the place where the camp followers had set up their tents and find experienced women, who, with hand and mouth and willing bodies, could bring him to the heights of sensual fulfillment. There he would satisfy his passions and forget about her. He would never see her again anyway. Just another light-haired wench.

But those eyes, gentle Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes of lapis lazuli that could see into the heart and the soul and perhaps the past and future. Blue Eyes fairer than the distant skies. And just as unobtainable! Forget her! Nothing more than an infatuation! "But then," he wondered, "why do my loins grow warm and my heart grows so tender when I think about her?"

Despite the disturbing dream and the intrusion into his mind and soul by his constant thoughts of the girl, he had every reason to feel elated. The girl, no matter that the dream might portend, would have little consequence upon his life, and the odd night fantasy was just one of many passionate dreams. But that skin so soft, those fine strands of hair, and those kisses! Blue Eyes! Forget her!

Yes, he should feel elated, pleased, but he was only relieved. The Captain had interceded with the Lieutenant for his sake and had asked that a lesser penalty be dealt the sergeant. The Lieutenant took a dim view of the sergeant's indiscretions, saying in his usual cold, haughty tone of voice that, "such actions could lead the men to mutinous behavior." Though the sergeant was as guilty as any common felon, the commander of the cavalry had announced, in patronizing tones and with a great look of being put upon, that, "the matter can wait until after the battle." Sergeant Daungha knew that meant he was left to agonize over his predicament for as long as the Lieutenant wished to let him dangle. There was always the choice of "dying nobly in battle; all things are forgiven to those who do," meaning, of course, the Gods.

The sergeant had been appropriately grateful. When he considered his circumstances, they could be far worse than they were now. He could be lying gelded somewhere upon filthy straw, groaning in agony and unable to walk for days. Then it would be shackles and manacles, branding, shorn hair and beard, and life as a slave.

He tried to steel his mind and dismiss these troubling thoughts. It was duty as usual today, and he would be leading his troopers with pride in them and in himself and the the skills that he had learned in many skirmishes and battles in the East. When the time came to face the consequences of his actions, he hoped that he would have Captain Kourosh's stoicism, calm reliance upon philosophy and his intellect to guide him. He knew he would not.

* * *

NOTES

Black Speech:  
Shakh Krithob - Lord of the Nine  
"Aanug tor" - Pleasant morning  
"Narnûlublat" - Thank you


	21. The Dance of Blood and Death

Chapter Written by Angmar

After dressing and putting on his armor with the aid of an orderly, Sergeant Daungha waited until his horse was brought to him. Then, after mounting his sable steed, he settled into the high-backed saddle, feeling its curve around him. The saddle's staunch, firm support was a comforting reassurance. He pursed his lips and looked up at the sky.

Sergeant Daungha's company, the First Company of the Second Regiment, Third Brigade, Khandrim Cavalry, had already formed into two rows of fifty men each, one behind the other. After riding over to his men, Sergeant Daungha turned his steed to face them. His spirited horse was skittish this morning. Right forehoof pawing the ground, the steed mouthed the bit, streams of saliva bubbling at the corners of its lips. The horse sensed something was amiss, a change in the air perhaps.

The men of the company were a fearsome-looking lot with red scarves wrapped around their helms like turbans, the ends of the scarves flowing free down their backs. Men wore dark mail shirts or shirts of bright plates, all clad in sable, scarlet and gold and scattered shades of green and blue. Kohl was on their eyelids and their braided hair, adorned with bright beads, hung down long about the sides of their faces. Some had braided and oiled their beards while others had curled them in dark waves and ringlets. Charms, amulets and talismans on metal chains and cords of leather hung around the necks of many of the Eastern warriors.

Each man had performed his personal morning oblations while the darkness lay heavy upon the earth. Then after a breakfast at feeble dawn, the company cooks and their assistants had brewed a strong tea and poured it into great silver vessels, carved with runes and warded with spells. Added to this were herbs and an infusion of kapurdri, a brew made from the holy mushrooms of the East. Some said the runes on the vessels themselves endowed the tea with certain magic properties while others said that potions were added to the tea as it was being steeped. Whatever the source of its power, the men accepted the drink eagerly, for rumor had it that the draught had been blessed by the Priest-kings themselves.

After all was mixed and blended, the cooks and their assistants carried the vessels to each company and poured the concoction into silver ewers. Then came the "Passing of the Sacred Cup," or, as some called it, "Galtaum Trînum-ob Lutaum-ob," the "Draught of the Madness of Battle," a ritual performed before every battle. The desired effect of the draught was to heighten the men's bloodlust and zeal for battle and to deaden the dread that they naturally felt towards the Priest-kings.

The commanding sergeants of the company had presided and, with the orderlies' assistance, had filled each man's cup from the ewers. The captain placed his hands over the rim and hallowed both the cup and the warriors as each one dedicated his sword, his life and his blood to the Master, his land and his comrades.

Most of the time the draught allayed the men's fears greatly. Upon making contact with the enemy, the men would charge recklessly forward, believing that they were impervious to harm. Some were overcome with such passion that they would reach states of ecstasy and the euphoria could last for hours if the mixture had been compounded correctly. However, if not enough of the kapurdri had been mixed with the tea, the effects would wear off quickly. If too much had been added and the draught was too strong, the men might rush off the battlefield and frantically strike rocks or trees in their frenzy. The saying was, "He does not drink enough of the Galtaum Trînum-ob Lutaum-ob until he gnashes his teeth upon his shield in his eagerness for battle."

With the lightening of the sky an hour after dawn, the Sacred Virgins had danced the Dance of Blood and Death before the cavalry regiments. The captains and sergeants who had been chosen to perform this high honor had unsheathed their swords and formed a semi-circle, holding their blades before them. The dancers had knelt before them and begged for their flesh to be cut. Then the maidens had performed the sensual dance of death, swaying and writhing against the sharp, broad sides of the men's swords. The swords did their work well, slicing the silken dancing raiment to shreds, exposing the maidens' bleeding flesh to more incursions of the blades. This ritual always worked the soldiers up into a frenzy of lust and blood.

The men had all chanted, "Mazauk! Matum! Grish!" while the maidens twisted and undulated before them, inflaming the men's passions even more.

"We dance in joy before the warriors and yield our blood for sacrifice!" the maidens had cried. "Bathe your swords with our blood, a taste of the torrents which your blades will soon drink!"

The officers had sung back to them, "We dedicate our swords, cleansed in your blood, to the High Lords of Darkness! They promise life everlasting and new worlds beyond the innumerable stars to brave warriors who are fell and swift to war! Let our swords be true today and bring us victory! Death! Death! Matum! Grish! Grish!"

The women had answered them, "Mazauk! Matum! Grish!"

"Then to Death!" the men had shouted. "Let blood be spilled this day! Let our vanquished enemies quail at our feet! Let the day not end without victory or death!"

Finally, the maidens, bleeding and exhausted by the dance and loss of blood, had fallen down upon their faces before the officers, writhing and twitching in ecstatic trances. The officers had raised their swords high into the air, saluting the maidens and their dance. Then the horn had sounded, and after the men had sheathed their swords, they turned and walked away from the maidens, butcher's work ahead of them.

Though the ever-present cloud of darkness still lay over the land, the shadowy sky had glowed red in the East. It was now two hours after the sickly face of the sun had risen. The Sergeant and his men knew what this omen portended. If the sky turned unfriendly and the rain fell with great sweeping breezes, the protecting cloud would turn into fragments and flee away into the East. The sky was an ill omen. Not that rain would bother the men, but those orcs who could not bear the light of the sun would be sorely pressed. Without them the Mordor Army's number would be dangerously lessened.

As he looked at the sky, the Sergeant's mood of elation began to lessen, and he felt an ominous presence, something lurking, unseen in the air. The morning seemed colder than it was. In spite of the kapurdri draught, Sergeant Daungha felt tense and clenched and unclenched his fingers. He was sweating heavily now and his body under the tattered uniform felt damp. For a moment he looked at his men and they stared back at him. The evil portents in the sky were having their effect upon them, too.

The Sergeant thought, "Perhaps before the day is done and my comrades behold my countenance again, my face will be caught in the cold spell of death." Though he was uneasy, he was yet unafraid, still confident that his luck would not forsake him. "Whatever has been ordained as my fate cannot be changed now. If I am to die, may it be in honor!"

"Men," Sergeant Daungha encouraged, "the enemy is in disarray and the day will be ours!" His horse pranced nervously. "We fight against those who would invade our lands, pillaging and raping. They would carry our kin off into slavery! Remember how their ancestors came to these shores and took our people back in slavery to their own lands, some to die in sacrifice to their Unholy Gods in the Dark Temple upon their island!"

The men growled and shook their spears in the air.

"Let us kill them or drive them into the sea! We do not fight for ourselves! We fight for our Righteous Master and for our wives, children, our elderly, our sick and the weak, our kin and friends!" He rose in his stirrups and seemed to tower as an ancient Variag warrior from the past. "I see the fire alive in your eyes, the Holy Flame of vengeance and justice!"

The men cheered him as they pounded their spears upon their shields.

"Some of us will have the honor of meeting our ancestors, the valiant ones who have long gone to their graves, slaughtered by our enemies! Tonight there will be feasting and celebration in the Dark Halls, where the Dead dwell! Let none of them say that the Men of the East died as cowards in their beds!"

"MATUM!" he screamed, a towering spectre from the past, the spirit of their ancestors caught in the flesh, and his men felt the power of his words.

"MATUM!" they echoed back and pounded their spears against their shields more fiercely than ever.

"Mazauk! Matum! Grish!" he cried.

"Mazauk! Matum! Grish!" they responded.

Then, suddenly, carried downward from the air above, the men heard shrill cries and saw the Nazgûl flying above them. The Nine shapes had swooped down low over Helm's Deep and then turned and flew above the men's heads. The sight of them always gave the warriors great courage, and they cheered the Nazgûl as they flew out of sight. The powerful wings of their beasts took them up and they circled over the city again. Many of the men could make out their cries, since they were spoken in the Black Tongue. Even though it was in the High Speech, many of the words were familiar to Sergeant Daungha and his men.

"The Priest-kings encourage us, men! They are sure of victory! Hear Their joyous calls!" The men all looked upward, caught in the spell of the Nazgûl and the draught which they had drunk earlier that morn and their apprehension was banished.

"For you who cannot understand, I shall translate," the Sergeant exclaimed. "They say, 'Victory is Ours!' They will bring us good fortune, men! Count upon it! It is Their guarantee! They are messengers of the Most High Lord!"

The sergeant felt suddenly dizzy, euphoric. He watched the Nazgûl glide and soar in the sky above them, their presence intoxicating, raining down feelings of benediction upon all the troops. He felt that their strength and might gave him power and turned him into an unconquerable warrior.

Silently Sergeant Daungha uttered a prayer. "Great Lords, may Ye cast down terror from the skies! May Your journey be unchallenged and the Eye of the Great Master look upon Ye and give Ye power and protection. Blessings upon Ye, Great Ones!"

As he watched them in their flight, the Sergeant felt his body begin to sway, caught in their power. His eyes moved from them and he looked to his men. He saw that they, too, were swaying, all wrapped in a fervor of praise and ovation, a religious ecstasy which did not pass until the Nazgûl had turned and flown out of sight.

"Men! We are warriors, proud and brave! Our cause is the Righteous Cause of our Master Who reigns forever and ever! O Great Lord of Darkness, we pledge our swords, our lives, and our honor to Thee! Let the False King of the conquered land of the South tremble and hide behind the walls with his Magician, the idler, Mithrandir! Their hour has come! Death to the enemy!" he screamed.

"Blood and death!" the men shouted.

"To victory!" He waved his sword in the air as he rose even higher in the stirrups. "To victory! Form column! Rows of five abreast! We ride to serve our Master and our people! May our souls roam endlessly, restlessly, if we fail!"

The companies formed column, riding forward to join in their assigned places along with the other Easterling and Southron cavalry companies. The Lieutenant of the combined cavalry host had given the company commanders their instructions that morning.

The cavalry commander had met with his captains at seven that morning. There was little fear that the enemy would come out upon the field and attempt to storm the Mordor army. Still there was always the possibility that a small group might burst suddenly through the Postern Door and attempt to destroy the catapults and kill the engineers.

"More likely," the Lieutenant had said, "when the fighting before the gates has subsided, some will try to escape by any means that they can find and race wildly in their panicked flight, going hither and yon to escape their doom. The cavalry will be needed to guard the greensward atop the cliff between the Deep and the Coomb. Those who try to escape the fortress will be slain, save for a few men upon the list that I shall issue. Their names are: Gandalf the Wizard, Aragorn the Usurper, Faramir Steward of Gondor, Éomer King of Rohan, and all such others of their company as you may find. To those who surrender, mercy shall be granted."

The Lieutenant laughed as he saw the expression on those around him. "Aye, gentlemen, our pity and mercy can be extended to those whom we shall enslave." Knowing his meaning, his officers laughed.

"Captains, it is your duty to be vigilant and ready for any possibility. Issue orders to your companies accordingly! Together with the wolf riders and their beasts, your companies are to protect the catapults and engineers. If the Gate comes down today, which it will, find and destroy all escaping enemy soldiers. Leave none alive save those I named before. They will go as trophies to the Master. It is doubtful, though, that we will have anything much to do today. The enemy is weak and scarcely able to launch an attack against us," the proud cavalry commander said confidently.

After a few cups of wine to give them heart for the day's duties, the captain had said, "Now, gentlemen, let us be about the sport for the day. You are dismissed."

"Forward!" he commanded the men upon the field. "Let the sheep see the wolves at the gate of the cot!"

The cavalry rode forward row upon orderly row across the dark field towards the road. A slight breeze began to blow out of the west, and the officers' cloaks swirled about their backs, billowing about them like dark sheets. Clouds had begun to gather in the west and the wind picked up and began to blow. The Lieutenant looked up in surprise as a drop of rain fell upon his helm. He stared in disbelief and held his hand out, catching another raindrop on his gloved palm.

Then, gaining in intensity, the breeze grew into a great wind that swept across the inclined plain, howling, screeching, as large drops of rain splattered down. Lightning flashed, the heavens opened up and the rain began to fall in sheeting torrents. Somewhere to the west, they heard the distant sound of horns wildly blowing.

The Rohirrim had come at last.

* * *

NOTES

There are several maps which chart the progress of the battle in Chapters 21, 22, 24, 26 and 27. You may view them on the authors' personal webpage, which can be found via a web search for The Circles by Angmar and Elfhild, or The Library of Minas Morgul. Our page is the one hosted by Byethost22.


	22. Riders of the Winds

Chapter Written by Angmar

Their Lieutenant leading, the rows of cavalry moved on towards the road. With his turbaned helm, sable robes, and prancing stallion beneath him, he would have cut a dashing sight this day. However, the rain that poured from the swollen skies had drenched him. Now the folds of the crimson and white striped turban had slid down upon his brow, and the long ends of the scarf were plastered to his back. He realized bitterly that both he and his cavalry resembled the bedraggled survivors of a flood, but he solaced himself with the knowledge that the enemy looked no better.

The men knew well enough what the sound of the distant horns portended. They had heard them enough on the fields in the South and had learned to dread them, for the Riders of Rohan were every bit as fierce as any of the Easterlings and Southrons.

"Halt!" came the Lieutenant's command as he held up his right arm. His order was repeated many times through the rows behind him.

Captain Kourosh, the kohl upon his eyelids smudging in downpour, was momentarily blinded by the sheets of driving rain. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he gave his men the order to halt. In the west, the jagged forks of lightning knifed through the dark, billowing clouds. Turning to Tooraj, the Captain saw the look of apprehension upon the youth's face.

"'Twould appear that we have unexpected guests upon the field. They are as noisome as crowing cocks proclaiming their lusty mounting of a hen!" the Captain said with grim humor. "We shall give them a warm welcome, and perhaps we will hew the spurs off their shanks."

"Captain," Tooraj asked nervously, "what will this storm do to the clouds that protect us?"

"If we are fortunate, all we will have is an unexpected bath. If fate is ill-disposed, we could have something quite different," replied the Captain.

"I would prefer the bath and naught else," Tooraj attempted a laugh.

"Should the clouds continue to unleash their torrents, the field will soon be a great muck. Let us hope it will not cast down a morass for our steeds and us."

A great clap of thunder sounded from the west and lightning again cut the fabric of the sky into ribbons. The Captain looked up at the perilous heavens and began to feel doubt for the first time. He did not want Tooraj or any of the men to see his darkening reflections.

"Tooraj, remember this army is invincible, but," the Captain said wryly, "things may get a little rough."

"Aye, Captain, there are none like us," Tooraj answered. "We are invincible and will take the worst they can send us!"

"Ask the Righteous Gods for protection against the Gods of Wrath!" Captain Kourosh's hand went to his neck and he pulled a leather cord from beneath his tunic. "See?" he said, holding an object in his palm. "The sign of the Hammer," he looked at Tooraj, "for protection."

"Aye, Captain," Tooraj replied eagerly as he fetched a like amulet from his own tunic. "I have one wrought in the same design! And," he added, looking slightly flustered, "just for luck, there is another. This," he said as he pulled a second charm from out of his tunic, "came from the Darkness of the Sky and is dedicated, solely for good fortune, you understand, to the Unknown Gods. One can never be too sure." He smiled nervously as he held the heavy black stone in his hand.

"No," the Captain smiled slightly, "you never can be too sure." May the souls of our ancestors, he thought to himself, protect us, if they even yet endure!

"If I should fall," Tooraj smiled bravely, "and you are able, take these to my brother and tell him that when he looks at them, to remember me."

"Trooper, do not speak in such words. You are afraid, are you not?"

"Aye, I would be a damned fool not to be!"

"Wise lad!"

The rain slackened and a mighty noise was heard high in the heavens to the west. Those Riders who lived to tell the tale say that the ghostly Horn of Helm was sounded far off. Others - doubters and skeptics - say that the noise was merely an echoing rumble of thunder.

Across their field of vision, the men manning the Deep watched in awe as strange bluish fire arced across the tops of two of the great catapults. The orcs and men beneath the stone throwers quailed in fear. Looking above them, they saw the spectral flames, glowing orbs of light dancing like fire from the hand of a wrathful avenger.

"The Two Dark Gods!" came up the cry from those manning the catapults. "Dread Melkor and the Great Eye! They demand blood sacrifice and only then will They be satiated! Sacrifice! Sacrifice!" Seeing some of their comrades, the men laid hold of them. In their maddened fear, they hurled the struggling, screaming men to the ground, plunging their daggers over and over into twitching and quivering bodies.

The strange light vanished as quickly as it had come. A great shout went up - "The Gods are appeased!" But the men who had wielded the daggers stared about them in befuddlement, their glazed eyes not fully comprehending what they had just done. "Kapurdri, battle madness," murmured others who had beheld the bloody spectacle.

Other eyes were watching the battle unfold. In His tower, the Dark Lord frowned as He gazed into the Ithil Stone, His Heart troubled. Far away in Valinor beyond the Circles of the World, the Valar and their host studied the field, just as they gazed upon the doings of all battles and noble quests. Manwë, Lord of the Breath of Arda, grieved at how the Men of Darkness had misread his storm, while Yavanna, Giver of Fruits, wept in sorrow at their abuse of her gifts.

The wolf-riders had begun the day confident that before night fell there would be man's-flesh in their stomachs. Now they watched in terror as a dark flock of birds arose in the northeastern skies and sang. The plumed shafts plummeted downward, many of their songs challenged by orcish shields. Yet many arrows bored into the bodies of the forward riders and sent wolf and orc screaming to the ground. After a fierce little fight, both rider and beast came howling back, seeking safety.

The raindrops slowed in their downward descent and pattered gently on the cloak of Captain Kourosh, a soft touch, the fingers of destiny. The winds from the West played with the edges of the dark clouds above and, laughing, tossed them aside. Shuddering, the great cloud of darkness burst asunder and the golden bloom of the sun grew upon the eastern sky. Somewhere in the vastness of Helm's Deep, a gong struck a quarter past the hour of nine.

Then the Easterling cavalrymen saw them on the horizon, shields with white horses on green fields, mail and spear-points gleaming brightly in the sun. With them rode others bearing strange heraldry, the likes of which had not been seen for many ages of Men. Indeed, it was the Elvish host from the North who had answered the desperate message for help that had been sent to Rivendell by Aragorn ere the siege of Dol Amroth.

"The damned Riders!" the men cried.

The Lieutenant shouted above the clamor. "Turn and meet them! Do not let them flank us! Right wheel!"

He thought to himself, "Doom comes upon the rain!"

"Right wheel! Right wheel! Turn and face them or they will destroy us!" the Lieutenant screamed again, and his panicked words were echoed up and down the line.

The Mordorian line swung to the right and turned to face their old enemies from the South as their ancestors had faced them long ago. The memories of those disastrous engagements still lived in the folklore of the Easterlings.

"This will not be another Field of Celebrant!" the cavalry Lieutenant told the aides who rode near him.

The Rohirrim were singing their songs of slaying, and the Elves were softly chanting words in their own language, the deep, sonorous voices of the Eorlings mixing with the fair voices of the Elves. The Easterlings and Southrons heard a tongue such as they had never heard before, raised with the Rohirrim in a terrifying song of death.

The two great forces of cavalry faced each other, searching for weakness in the other. To the southwest loomed the Fortress of Helm's Deep. The buckets of the great, towering catapults hurled strange fire darts which no water could quench. Even from this distance, the men could hear the sound of the rams as they swung ceaselessly against the Great Gate.

The Mordor army in front of the walls of the fortress waited apprehensively, on alert now for an attack from the rear. At the sight of the sun, the orcs who could not bear the light took whatever cover they could find. Others looked around with wide, panicked eyes, ready to bolt if their officers did not hold them in check. Even the great Black Uruks, who defied the light, did not laugh this time at their weaker comrades' fear. Silent words of prayer were mouthed to Melkor and Sauron, pleading that their cavalry would hold strong.

The whole field appeared transfixed as men, orcs and animals seemed caught, as though in a tapestry, the threads already woven. A great silence came over all, and the sound of the battering rams seemed to mute. Then like the clear horn of Oromë came a strong, melodic voice.

"Utúlie'n aurë!" an Elf riding on a white horse cried. The gems upon the horse's headstall reflected the light of the glowing sun, the glittering stones flashing in the new sunlight.

Another clear voice echoed his words. "Auta i lómë!"

"Captain," Tooraj hissed, "there, the force advancing! What are those folk and what are they saying?!"

"Elves... and Men with them! I do not know what they say, only that the words sound like Elvish mumblings! They are witches and practice dark magick!"

Captain Kourosh's men murmured. "Elves do not fight as allies of Men!"

Over the din, Sergeant Daungha shouted, "The bastards are Elves! Elves with fierce, glowing, bright eyes! Fell shades upon the field!"

Corporal Babak, riding beside Sergeant Daungha, exclaimed, "Wood witches! They are evil and fey!" The corporal looked at them intently. "Sergeant, can they be killed? It is said they cannot die and they live forever!"

"We shall see if the demons have blood," the sergeant replied.

The hated, feared word, "Elves! Elves!" swept all across the field like a raging wildfire. Many men and orcs were sorely afraid, trembling and quailing in fear.

When the Lieutenant looked out upon the enemy cavalry host, his eyes widened in dismay. He turned and said to one of his bodyguards, "Elves and Rohirrim! This cannot be! Elves do not fight with Men and the Rohirrim forces which were in the South are dead men now, dead men! All of them! They died in the South! The Great Master brought a pestilence upon them and all perished, save for the small host of men who escaped over the mountains and hide now in Helm's Deep! Are we seeing a phantom cavalry of the dead, ghosts? And why are there Elves? Is this some form of sorcery?!"

"My lord," his bodyguard, white-faced, ashen, trembling, replied, "they do not appear to be dead!"

The Lieutenant's heart seemed to constrict in his chest. Fear such as he had never felt in all his days assailed him. At the sight of the Elvish host, an evil seed of doubt had sprouted in his mind, had taken root and was beginning to grow. Sweat added to the moisture under his turbaned helm, soaked his back, and poured from his armpits. He fought for control over his emotions.

Many in the army to their left had turned and looked towards the enemy. No orders were given for them to unleash a hale of arrows towards the approaching enemy. The range was too great for their bows. If their arrows fell short, they might strike the backs of their own cavalry.

The cavalry commander looked at the cloud of enemy horsemen ahead of them. "Halt! Bowmen at the ready!" he screamed. "Choose every target with care! Drive them back! Let them taste the nectar of death!"

"Unleash arrows!"

The mounted archers poured forth a volley of fearsome, venom-dipped arrows into the approaching foe. Many a clear voice was forever stilled as both men and elves slumped in their saddles.

Then like a clarion call they heard across the field, "Forth Eorlingas!"

"Utúlie'n aurë! Auta i lómë!" the Elves cried again.

The host of Men and Elves began to surge forward, going slowly at first, and then gaining speed, their horses thundering across the field. The lances held by the men and elves were thrust forward, a sharp, gleaming force of moving death.

"Look up! Look up!" the Lieutenant screamed. "Take heart! Help comes from the sky!"

And then he bellowed, "Charge!"

High above them came the screams of the Nazgûl sounding once again as the Nine rode the air, offering protection to the Easterling and Southron host below. Flying over the fortress, then turning to the Deeping Coomb, they passed over the galloping host of Elves and Men, their presence bringing fear to many enemy horsemen and chargers. They raised their voices and began to chant the Song of Black Shadow.

Lash-izgu, Shakh Matum-ob, iis-ûk Laush Bûrgul-ob Mor  
Bugd-izgu pardahûn Bûrzum-ob Motsham  
Tiimor agh bûf ish-izubu-u, ûk-u mirz mazauk-izibu kau  
Gaakh tuglu-ulub bhadûrat hîsht-u agh ashtu  
Agh kraibagum agh matum norkatulûk!

Naan narish-izubu-u lash-izgu Laush Hûr-ob  
Naakh-ob gundûrz quiin-tala, shapat-tala  
Mau-ob hûr agh rûku narufuz  
Narbûf-ob agh pardahûn-ob

Khlaar-izishu, ûk shaishi mogu-izubu  
Skaiugu ish-izubu-tala  
Bhoghâtugu ûk-tala mirz obâsh Mog Shakh-ob

Nine dark shadows traveled across the ground and the host of the foe, bringing the chill cold of death with them. Some horses, a frenzy of fear upon them, could not be controlled by their riders and plunged headlong in all directions. Some men, caught in a trance of dread, toppled soundlessly from their mounts. Yet the men of the East and South were heartened and their steeds were steadied.

The Nazgûl wheeled around, swooping low, and sought targets among the leaders of the advancing enemy, aiming for their backs. Nine arrows were sent from bowstrings and nine bodies below toppled from their saddles. By fate or by fortune, the darts fell astray in the chaos, missing their intended victims but striking others in their stead.

The Elf horseman of the clear sweet voice still rode his horse and chanted as the beast gathered momentum.

"Utúlie'n aurë! Auta i lómë!"

A touch on the reins and the fell beasts soared suddenly upward.

"Urk!" the Witch-king of Angmar screamed. "Are your arms so weak today? Why do your arrows not fall true?"

"The damned Elves!" Rutfîmûrz, the Sixth, shrieked. "They have cast spells of magick about their accursed armies!"

As his beast soared high into the air, Angmar retorted, "Superstitious nonsense! They are not all-powerful!"

The Elven archers retaliated and sent a hale of arrows streaming after the riders in the sky. Arrows whistled about them as the Nine guided their beasts back towards the Deep, urging the powerful creatures to greater speeds.

"Close!" cried Rutfîmûrz as an arrow lightly skimmed over one of his thighs, scraping against the mail halberk which hung to his knee.

"Too damned close!" Gothmog, the Lieutenant of Minas Morgul, screamed as an arrow came perilously close to his head.

"By the Hammer of the Underworld!" shrieked the Witch-king. "That damned Glorfindel! Ever does he plague my steps! He is with the Horse-lords now! Did you not see him as we swooped down upon them?!"

"Akh, I saw him!" the shrill cry of Udukhatûrz, the Seventh Nazgûl, rose above the others. "Which one of us would not? He shines like the phosphorescent glow of a corpse-light!" Udu remarked sarcastically and then turned back in his saddle to look on the field behind them.

The two hosts of cavalry clashed against each other with great fury, men and horses screaming as spears plunged into their bodies. Down below them, the Nazgûl could see the field, a writhing, twisting orgy of carnage.

At a ferocious gallop, Éomer King, his countenance terrible to behold, drove his spear straight away through the shield of the charging Easterling Lieutenant. The spear penetrated the shield and tore into the man's halberk, piercing his chest and smashing his ribs, tearing away his whole spine through his back. The lance of the Lord of the Mark thrust well home, causing the Variag's body to topple backwards from his saddle. Then the Khandian was hurled dead, blood gurgling from his mouth, a full spear-length away. Those of his men who saw the Lieutenant's fall were in dismay, leaderless, their courage battered. Still they fought on, but tried to stay a goodly distance from the King of Rohan.

Even at this height, the sensitive nostrils of the Nazgûl could pick up a hint of blood upon the breeze. Zagbolg, the Bloodthirsty, the Fourth Nazgûl and the Messenger of Dol Guldur, licked his lips at the smell.

"Ahhhh," he sighed, his eyes closing as he thought of the taste of the pleasant, warm liquid in his mouth.

The fell beasts carried their riders far over their own lines near the fortress. The Dark Captain gave the order, "Turn, my lords, back over the field of battle! Come upon them from the rear again! Have your arrows nocked in readiness! Let our enemies feel the rending foreshadowing of death in their hearts! Let their marrow turn to ice!"

"I cannot see!" cried Khamûl as the Nine Kings soared. "The sun is blinding me and we are riding back into the full, glaring face of the light! Which way? Which way?!" he shrieked in consternation, putting his hand over his eyes.

Khamûl the Black Easterling was Second to the Chief and the Lord of Dol Guldur. He was the most devout of all the Nine save for the Black Captain himself, but Khamûl's power was the most confused and diminished by the light of the sun.

"Blind fool," Krakfakhthal, the Fifth Nazgûl, muttered. "He will be lost again soon. Blind men should never be sent to wage war!"

"I do not feel exactly comforted by the brightness either," Zagbolg hissed. "The fell sun hampers my vision greatly, almost as much as it does our brother Khamûl!"

"Discipline your wills, for you no longer seem to have control over them! We have fought before in the day and we shall do so again! Let the eyes of your beasts guide you!" the Morgul Lord screamed in anger.

Skrishau, the Eighth Nazgûl, said in his usual dry fashion, "The beasts cannot fire arrows, my lord..."

"Gaakh ghru-lab grazadhat-bo!" Angmar snarled in irritation.

"Bolkub-izg nar ghru-izub ruz-ishi gund Mandos-ob!" Skri laughed drolly.

Ignoring Skrishau, Angmar commanded, "My lords, the enemy is directly below us now, striving with our men! Let us weave our Songs of Deep Magick, of Death, Desolation and Destruction! Overcome our foes with our Songs of Might! The men are far more frightened of us than we are of them!"

"My king," Skrishau said almost superciliously as he rode close to his captain, "the Elves do not fear us." Angmar saw Skri's mouth turning up in a smirking smile.

Angmar bared his teeth at him and hissed. "Gaakh pu-lab grazadhat-bo!"

"Agh orsk Mandos ghashanu-izub?" Skri remarked. "Shakh-izub, kul-lat skrithûrz!"

"Pushbaur miburrûrz!" he exclaimed with contempt. "It is a day of blood and war, not foolish banter!"

"Unleash arrows!" the Dark Captain shrieked.

Down plunged nine dark barbs, venom on their tips.

As they fought, the Elves below them sang of Elbereth and diamond glowing shores. The voices of the Nazgûl rose higher in their Songs of Sorcery. Both songs were fair, melodious in their way, but one was shade and meres and the other was beech trees streaked with light. The two strove against the other, vying for the mastery of the field.

"By Melkor! That name!" cried Zagbolg. "The screaming Witch of the Heavens seeks to gnaw out my brains!"

The Nazgûl turned and flew back towards the fortress. The besieged men on the walls below them cursed them and shook their fists. Calm and unafraid, Gandalf and Aragorn beheld them and watched as the Nine wheeled over the fortress.

The Morgul Lord slowed his mount and looked down.

"Damn them both, the Wizard and his poppet king," Angmar cursed as he reined his fell beast to the right and flew to join his brothers. There was no time to deal with the two wretches.

Rushing into the view of the Nazgûl was the tumultuous battlefield, a scene of wrecked men and horses. In the midst of the sea of death, man and elf still struggled to kill each other, ignoring those falling all about them. The wounded, shrieking and rambling in their pain, clasped blood-covered hands around spears and arrows, trying in their desperate struggle to pull them from their bodies. Other wounded tottered in their saddles, trying to keep their balance and not fall under the undulating mass of fighting men and rearing and plunging horses. Drowned out by the cacophony of overpowering sound were the moans of the wounded on the ground as an iron-shod hoof came down unwillingly and crushed a face, an arm, a leg.

At the loss of their Lieutenant and the staggering number of casualties, the Easterlings and Southron cavalrymen had borne all they could. Their lines slowly crumbled and broke. Their officers tried to rally them but defeat had filled their hearts. They slashed wildly at their enemy, and then, breaking free of their foe, they turned in disorder and disarray, forced to leave their wounded and dead. As the Easterlings and Southrons muttered imprecations and fled for their lives, they could hear wild cheers and mocking taunts coming from the walls of the fortress. A great groan wailed from the throats of their own army.

"Men, do not follow the retreating enemy. We must return and replenish our supplies of spears. The enemy will summon their courage and come at us again. We shall regroup," Éomer told his captains, "and reorganize. Gather first our wounded. Sound the signal to draw back!"

Glorfindel rode up to Éomer. "We shall stay here as rear guard whilst your forces regroup. Let the enemy behold the faces of the Elves and fear us!"

The Rohirrim force turned and rode back to where lads waited with spears. In only a matter of minutes, they would be back upon the field to challenge the enemy once again.

Out of arrow range of the Mordor army and cavalry, the Elves formed a line and stayed their ground. They chanted songs of ancient days, of power and might, of magick and light, of seen and unseen and things that once were and great heroes of old. Somewhere from an old song they drew the name of Lúthien Tinúviel, of nightingales and shining stars, of changing and shifting shape, the battle for the tower, of spells light and black, of the Silmaril stolen from a Dark Crown. And as they chanted and sang their songs of power, their ethereal essence pulsed and glowed like the Elves of Yesterday and their fading was halted... for a time.

The men waited as they watched the cords of destiny draw tighter.

* * *

NOTES

Black Speech:  
"Mazauk" - War  
"Matum" - Death  
"Grish" - Blood  
"Gaakh ghru-lab grazadhat-bo!" - May your manhood rot off!  
"Bolk-izg nar ghru-izub ruz-ishi gund Mandos-ob!" - I will not need it in stone halls of Mandos!  
"Gaakh pu-lab grazadhat-bo!" - May your mouth rot off!  
"Agh orsk Mandos ghashanu-izub? Shakh-izub, kul-lat skrithûrz!" - And rob Mandos my words? My lord, you are cruel!  
"Pushbaur miburrûrz!" - Arrogant asshole! (Lit. prideful dunghole. "Baur" = "hole" and "miburr" = "pride" taken from Colloquial Black Speech Dialect.)

SONG OF BLACK SHADOW  
Translated and Written by Angmar

Lash-izgu, Shakh Matum-ob, iis-ûk Laush Bûrgul-ob Mor / We, the Lords of Death, sing before all the Song of Black Shadow (Laush = song; Horngoth)  
Bugd-izgu pardahûn Bûrzum-ob Motsham / We proclaim the power of the Ancient Darkness (Pardahûn = power; Horngoth. Motsham = ancient; MERP)  
Tiimor agh bûf ish-izubu-u, ûk-u mirz mazauk-izibu kau / Terror and despair to our enemies, to all who war against us  
Gaakh tuglu-ulub bhadûrat hîsht-u agh ashtu / May their efforts turn to ash and bones  
Agh kraibagum agh matum norkatulûk! / And sorrow and death take them all!  
Naan narish-izubu-u lash-izgu Laush Hûr-ob / But to our friends we sing a Song of Courage  
Naakh-ob gundûrz quiin-tala, shapat-tala / Of steady hand upon the bow, upon the sword hilt (Gundûrz = stone; Horngoth)  
Mau-ob hûr agh rûku narufuz / Of brave warriors and steeds unafraid  
Narbûf-ob agh pardahûn-ob / Of victory and of power  
Khlaar-izishu, ûk shaishi mogu-izubu / Hear us, all within our voices  
Skaiugu ish-izubu-tala / Cursings on our foes  
Bhoghâtugu ûk-tala mirz obâsh Mog Shakh-ob / Blessings upon all who heed our Master's Voice (bhoghât = bless; Horngoth. Obâsh = obey; unknown orgin)

Nazgûl Names:  
The only Nazgûl that Tolkien named was Khamûl. The others were given no names, and so names were created for them in The Circles. Whether Gothmog, the Lieutenant of Minas Morgul, was a Nazgûl, a man or an orc is unknown. In this alternative universe, however, he is a Nazgûl.  
Here is a list of titles for Nazgûl #4 - 9 as used in the Circles.  
Zagbolg - Meaning "Four" and "Bloodthirsty"  
Krakfakhthal - Meaning "Five" and "Butcher"  
Rutfîmûrz - Meaning "Six" and "Young"  
Udukhatûrz - Meaning "Seven" and "Intelligent"  
Skrishau - Meaning "Eight" and "Quiet"  
Krithnarînuz - Meaning "Nine" and "Forgotten"

Quenya Elvish:  
"Utúlie'n aurë! Auta i lómë!" - The day has come; the night is passing (Taken from "Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad," The Silmarillion, p. 190)

There are several maps which chart the progress of the battle in Chapters 21, 22, 24, 26 and 27. You may view them on the authors' personal webpage, which can be found via a web search for The Circles by Angmar and Elfhild, or The Library of Minas Morgul. Our page is the one hosted by Byethost22.


	23. Promotions

Chapter Written by Angmar

When the host of Mordor saw the Rohirrim ride from the field, many of the men began to feel a fresh wave of kapurdri elation, and they were filled with false hope. Some began to rave like wild men as they beheld false visions of the Riders of the Mark retreating in a mad rush. Only a few moments had passed since Éomer and his Riders had ridden away in an orderly fashion, leaving only to replenish their supply of spears and reorganize after their losses.

"The Rohirrim retreat!" shouted the besiegers at the foot of the Hornrock. "Our cavalry has bested them! See them run like dogs whose tails have been set afire!"

"You are mistaken. No Rohir horns sounded the retreat. The Elves yet remain, and the enemy cavalry has not been routed. It has only withdrawn for a time. They will be back. Let us hope our cavalry rallies and goes back to face them," advised others, battle-wise and knowing.

Some Easterling and Southron cavalry commanders had been separated from their companies. Other officers had been able to maintain some cohesion among their ranks during their retreat. Though they had fallen back towards the fortress, they now gave the orders to their men to gather round them and regroup. Soon horns began to sound, summoning the horsemen, and all those who were not unhorsed or too wounded to heed it, prepared once again to answer the call for a charge.

Maugoth Tahmtan, commanding general of the army, now surveyed the battle from afar, looking at maps and charts. His aides clustered about him, giving him their best advise and pointing out things on maps and charts that perhaps he had overlooked. A constant stream of messengers arrived at his tent with dispatches, keeping him apprised as to the progress of the battle. Two secretaries were kept constantly at work writing his responses as couriers awaited his orders.

At times such as this, Maugoth Tahmtan, a vain man, secretly wished that he was standing high atop a lofty observation tower and watching as the battle unfolded before him. He had even considered employing a high-raised litter, where he could sit in ease, perhaps drinking a goblet of wine given to him from the hand of a servant who stood waiting upon him. There from his high perch, he could both see and be seen by his officers and remain in comfort and relative safety. After all, he weened, it would inspire his men to look back and see their general, the embodiment of a demigod upon a throne.

"Send the wolf-riders to drive the Elves from the field!" Maugoth Tahmtan shouted.

"The wolf-riders are nowhere to be seen, sir."

"Then let them all be sawed in two when they are found! The damned cowards! I will cut their livers out myself! Torture every last one and rape the women! There will be grim payment for failure and desertion!"

The Maugoth's face was a livid mask, ruddy and swollen from the draught he had drunk. His bodyguards and aides looked at him in alarm, concluding that he must have drunk too much of the kapurdri brew. The command from on High was clear: "Neither those above the rank of Pizdur nor Tûzantar manning the catapults may drink of the Sacred Draught of Battle Madness. Those who do risk the penalty of severe censure." The Lieutenant had thought, though, that he would never be found out. After all, many times before, he had strengthened his resolve by imbibing the draught.

"Sir," one of the aides dared venture, "there are no women here among the wolf-riders, unless their females ride hidden beneath the helms."

"Only a drunkard or a madman would desire to rape a she-orc," another man thought with a shudder.

Obviously besotted, the Maugoth looked at the men as though he could not see them. His senses were reeling with delusions that the battle had already been won and that his men were now cheering him. Then he gazed across the field at the line of Elvish cavalry, sitting atop their horses proudly. "Arrogantly," he thought. His once drill field order perfect cavalry had scattered or raced wildly back towards the fortress, impervious to their officers' commands. "Surely they will rally," he thought to himself. Leaderless and demoralized, many were unwilling to encounter the foe once again. Tahmtan shook his head from side to side, trying to clear his addled mind.

"Sir, are you all right?" asked an aide.

"Akh, you damn fool, why? Did you think I was not!"

"Nar, nar, certainly not, sir," he replied awkwardly.

News had been just been brought to them of the death by impalement of the Lieutenant of Cavalry.

"Who is a worthy successor for the Lieutenant?" Tahmtan asked his advisors.

"Yourself, sir?" ventured one who was always eager to earn the General's favor.

The prospects of an active field command frightened the Maugoth but he thought to hide his trepidation under bluster. Arrogantly he replied, "And who would lead the army should I fall!"

The subordinate, frightened at the look on the Maugoth's face, said meekly, "No one, sir."

"The Commander," Tahmtan said haughtily with a quick twist of his head towards the air, "...is occupied, and all is in my hands until he returns."

Another advisor said, "Might I suggest Captain Kourosh then, sir? He is wise, sage in his counsel, brilliant of mind, very valiant, and the men will follow him unquestioningly."

"A field promotion! The Captain is now Lieutenant of all Cavalry! Send him word of this now! Tell him my orders are to regroup and ride forth once more against the enemy when they present themselves upon the field! Though it is readily apparent that there is no infantry behind them, it would be inadvisable to allow the foe to break through our cavalry screen! Tell him it is an order most imperative to hold to the last man and... remind him... that if he does not succeed, he does not need to come back!"

The Maugoth thought, "If he is successful, the field promotion will be his, but if he fails, his name will be marked down in disgrace. He will be stripped of all honor and rank, and I shall personally supervise his torture! Let him bear the blame for all mistakes while my name remains without stain!"

"And whom, sir," the advisor asked, "will you name to replace Kourosh as captain of his regiment?"

General Tahmtan replied, "The man most fit for the position! I must rely now upon my own judgment as to who is the best man to name as commander of the Second Regiment, Third Brigade, Khandrim Cavalry. There is no time to get word to the high command to verify my appointment."

"Sir," the adjutant said, "if I may, I would like to recommend a most brave and honorable man for the position."

"Who is he?" asked the Maugoth, his mind free of the mushroom delusions for the time.

"Sergeant Daungha."

Maugoth Tahmtan shook his head and put his hand to his forehead, shrugging his shoulders. "That is quite impossible. The man is unreliable, an incorrigible independent, and is now facing courts-marital for his blatant indiscretions. I could never name him as captain of a regiment! Instead I name Sergeant Abtin to lead the Second Regiment. Victory today will ensure his promotion, the same as it will all other field promotions."

The advisor spoke up again. "Sir, I defer to your judgment, and while I realize that sometimes Daungha is difficult to handle, he is a brave and exceptional officer. The judgment is yours to make, sir, however."

"And my word is final," Maugoth Tahntam replied. "Let Sergeant Daungha redeem himself today in victory, or may the carrion-birds argue over his bloating corpse by nightfall."

"As you say, sir," said the adjutant, quietly and diffidently.

Shortly before the rout of his regiment, Captain Kourosh had taken the standard from the dead hands of the bearer and now held the banner aloft. "Rally around me and the flag of Khand! Let it not fall again unless it is soaked with our blood!"

"We hear our captain!" exclaimed the survivors of his regiment as they rode up to him upon the greensward before the Hornrock.

"Gather to me, men, and let us face the enemy! The Gods in the Sky will aid us!" Captain Kourosh shouted with the fervor of a zealot.

"Aye, sir," Sergeant Daungha encouraged. "Hope is not lost!"

A courier rode up to Captain Kourosh and handed him a dispatch. Breaking the seal with his forefinger, he opened the document and read of his promotion.

"What is it, sir? Good news or ill, if I might ask?" inquired Sergeant Daungha.

"A command far above my worth," Captain Kourosh answered. "It appears I have been named commander of all cavalry by Maugoth Tahmtan."

"Congratulations, sir! You have earned it. Might I ask who will replace you as captain of our regiment?"

"To replace me as captain of the Second Regiment, the Maugoth has named Sergeant Abtin in my stead and awards him a field promotion to captain."

Lieutenant Kourosh caught the look of disappointment in Sergeant Daungha's eyes and looked away.

"He is a good man, sir, and will serve well."

Nothing could hide Daungha's frustration, and he knew why he must have been rejected for the appointment. The trembling maiden with the blue eyes, the stolen kisses, a few rapturous moments, and hopes that might never be fulfilled.

"Gentle Blue Eyes," he thought, "my time with you has not served either one of us well, and I think it has served me worst of all. What strange fates must protect you and spare me not!" He felt once again his lips upon her soft, delicate ones and the feel of her warm, unwilling body held tightly against his. "Perhaps someday," he mused. Closing his eyes, he thought of her for another moment, and then left his bittersweet thoughts to dwell within the secret recesses of his heart. Wretched are the musings of those sick with love, and more wretched still are the ones afflicted with the malady who are far away on a field of battle.

The new Lieutenant cleared his throat.

"Sir, sorry," Sergeant Daungha said, feeling abashed.

"It is quite all right, Sergeant. Now to the matters at hand," the Lieutenant said. "Spread the word of my promotion to all officers," Kourosh told a courier.

The men were elated when they received news of the promotion. "To Lieutenant Kourosh!" they screamed when they heard the words. "Rally behind him! To victory or to death!"

Soon a group of field commanders had gathered around the Lieutenant. "My first order," he said to them, "is form column and ride down the road. Spread out in battle formation in the Deeping Coomb beyond the Dike and prepare to drive the enemy from the field! The First Brigade will take the left and the Second the right. I shall be riding with the Third Brigade in the center."

The Lieutenant still carried the regiment's battle flag.

"Sir," Tooraj, upon his horse by the Lieutenant's side, asked, "may I have the honor of carrying the battle standard?"

"It is very dangerous, Tooraj, to be a standard bearer. Often it is a quick road to death, for the enemy considers all standards and flags as trophies, just as we do. Many will die for the glory of killing a standard bearer and taking the flag."

Sergeant Daungha exclaimed, "Do not do it, Tooraj. It is an ill-omened thing!"

Corporal Babak, who had been bruised when an arrow had struck his chest, believed now that he could not die. "Sir, let me have the distinction of carrying the battle flag of the cavalry of Khand! I have found favor among the Gods!"

The Lieutenant looked straight ahead. "Tooraj has asked to carry the flag many times before. Today he will bear the standard."

"Sir, thank you! This flag is sacred to us, and I will strive to my utmost to protect it from the enemy!"

"Carry it into glory!" the Lieutenant shouted.

"Tooraj, you fool!" Sergeant Daungha thought as he cursed to himself.

"Sir, there is one thing that troubles me," said Tooraj. "Our dead and wounded are still upon the field. Could we not...?"

Lieutenant Kourosh looked into Tooraj's brown eyes rimmed in kohl and sighed. "No time. The enemy would kill us anyway if we tried." He reached out and put his hand on Tooraj's shoulder. "'Tis the wicked way of war, but I vow to you that after this battle, if I yet live, we will find every last one and give them aid... or mercy."

"Mercy: a strange word to call it," Tooraj thought. He had seen this mercy shown on the fields of the South after a battle had been waged. He supposed it was kindness, but yet the thought troubled him to see men wounded beyond saving shown pity by a comrade's sword through his heart.

"Tooraj," the philosopher-soldier looked at him with sympathetic eyes and said quietly, "would you rather see them fall into the hands of the enemy and be tortured?"

"No," he said, "I would rather see them live."

"Maybe someday in the future, in another time," he sighed, "there will be no more war, but not today. Now we need to move."

He turned to his company commanders, and said quietly, "This meeting is over! Give the orders to your men to ride out."

"Mautor Kourosh! Mautor Kourosh!" the men screamed out his name as he rode by them, his spear gleaming proudly before him.

Tooraj, carrying the standard, rode close to his side, his chest swelling with pride at the sight of his superior. At that moment, he worshiped and loved the Lieutenant with all his heart. The youth would follow him anywhere, even to fight the terrible Were-worms of the Last Desert, if the creatures of tales did indeed exist.

Lieutenant Kourosh trotted his horse among the lines before they rode out. "For our Master!" he shouted. "For Khand! For Harad! For Umbar! For Rhûn! For our homes! For our families! For all we hold dear! For our honor! Kill the damned Elves! Follow me!"

Then he set his heels to his horse's sides and led the cavalry eastward on the road. He looked back behind him for a second at his men and wondered how many of them would live through this day to see the light of the next.

* * *

NOTES

Black Speech:  
"Tûzantar" - Engineer

"Were-worms of the Last Desert" indeed comes from Tolkien. The word "were" probably comes from Old English word "wír" meaning "man." The word "worm" refers to dragon in this case. Little more is known of these creatures than what is quoted in The Hobbit:

"Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert." - Bilbo Baggins, "An Unexpected Party," The Hobbit, p. 27

Tolkien does not tell them any more about them than this, so quite possibly they were shapeshifters, like werewolves, if they did truly exist outside of myth and legend. Possibly they were maiar or some sort of spirits who could change form.

There are several maps which chart the progress of the battle in Chapters 21, 22, 24, 26 and 27. You may view them on the authors' personal webpage, which can be found via a web search for The Circles by Angmar and Elfhild, or The Library of Minas Morgul. Our page is the one hosted by Byethost22.


	24. Battle of Fire

Chapter Written by Angmar

Young Oslaf watched his older brother Osric. Lads, little more than children, rode up with more spears, replacements for those which had been left in the bodies of enemy riders. Osric balanced a spear in his hand, testing its weight. Grunting, he accepted it as worthy of his great strength and skill. Turning to his younger brother, Osric looked him up and down from his head to the toes of his boots.

"You killed your share today, little brother! I am proud of you. Father will be proud of you." Lowering his voice, he declared, "And our ancestors will be proud of you. Even Eorl the Young in the halls of our fathers would raise a tankard in toast to your bravery!"

"Brother," Oslaf said as he pushed his helm back and ran his fingers through the tangled mane of his blond hair, "I killed scarcely as many as you did."

"The day is not yet over, lad."

A group of Riders sat atop their sweating horses a little to the rear of the others, an unsmiling group of commanders discussing what lay before them. Their hair was long and wild, unkempt, and their tunics were soiled with the dirt of the trail. Blood stains - both fresh red which had been spilled that day, and deep brown from corpses which had long turned to bony memories - mottled the cloth of their garments, and a fell light burned in their blue eyes.

"My lord, the enemy's cavalry has given away once, and their wolf-riders have fled the field in disarray," declared Prince Imrahil. "I do not judge them able to withstand another such charge, though they will make one anyway, deluded fools that they are."

"Fools though they be, they are still brave ones," remarked Éomer as he stretched his large frame in the saddle.

"Aye, lord, but usually the bravest are the first to fall," Elfhelm observed dryly.

"Not always. Sometimes those most reckless and daring can ride through the thickest of the fray and return untouched. Occasionally, such men live to grow long, white mantles of hair and die peacefully in their beds as they drool and mutter about old battles. Some men seem charmed, or lucky, whatever you might call it," commented Prince Imrahil.

Though time had seemed to suspend itself while the two groups of cavalry were reorganizing, only the space of a few minutes had elapsed. Blood was still fresh and bright upon spears and swords, with the men not taking time to clean them on their cloaks.

Wounded men twitched and moaned on the field, keeping their last company with the dead. Some men in the depths of their death struggles plowed blood-stained furrows through the mud with their fingers, inching themselves forward as though they were eager to arrive at some ghastly destination. Some lay upon their stomachs, twisting their necks and struggling to keep their mouths out of the mud which threatened to suffocate them, should they become too weak to support themselves. Other unfortunates, disemboweled, bloody viscera stringing out behind them, joined the others in the clawing race through the bloodied mud to their dark appointments. Still other wretches, covered with many wounds, lay silently bleeding to death and would be dead ere the hour had passed.

Horses, those piteous creatures which neither knew nor cared what their masters' political sentiments were, fell with their riders. One great sable beast, who had once neighed and pranced and shook its head proudly, now lay in agony, trembling on the ground. Its fore and hind legs jerked spasmodically, pounding out the Reaper's Rhythm, eager to join the struggling race to nowhere. Another valiant charger of a different hue seemed willing to join its fellow in the same writhing match of doom and destiny. And so they all, beast and man, crawled and moaned in the mud or screamed out in anguish, victims, contestants in some grim contest of suffering. Death was not yet satisfied with the harvest though, and swung back his scythe, dipping it low in its sweeping arc.

Though there were many from their own side who were lying bleeding upon the field, the Úlairi grew in power, for they gathered pain and distress about themselves like a dark cloak and regarded Death as an ally. Above the Easterling and Southron cavalry, as though to bring them a benediction, the Nazgûl swooped low over them and then swung out over the field ahead of them. Below the Nine now, shining brightly as one of Varda's stars, an Elf-lord, his chest heaving from the struggle and excitement of battle, held a blood-stained sword and looked up.

"Aiya, Úlaire! Mae govannen! Le suilon, Angmar o Carn Dûm!" the Elf taunted, challenging.

"Broshan, Honal! Garmadh aarsh-lab-ir!" Angmar answered, and then translated his words into Common Speech.

"Nai haryuvalyë melwa rë!" the Elf laughed.

"Aim for the bright one!" Angmar screamed, infuriated. The beasts descended as nine arrows flew from the bows of the Nazgûl.

"Leithio i philinn!" the Elf-lord commanded. "Ya línna ambanna tulinuva nan!"

The Elves were waiting for them. When the Nazgûl drew closer, the Elves unleashed a hale of flaming arrows into the sky.

"Flames! The bastards use fire!" shrieked Udukhatûrz.

"It appears now we find ourselves in the midst of the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame," Skrishau, the Eighth Nazgûl, commented humorlessly as an arrow sped by his bow arm, "and it grows increasingly warm."

"Ghaash! Ghaash!" bellowed Rutfîmûrz as a flaming arrow struck the pommel of his saddle. His arms trembled and his arrow fell short. Momentarily dismayed by the fire, his will wavered from wielding the Black Shadow. Paralyzed by fear, he gazed in abject terror at the burning arrow as it charred his saddle. Rut felt his being caught in the center of the flames, spellbound. Unable to move, he thought only of leaping from the saddle and plunging to the earth.

"Fool! Stop staring at the fire!" Angmar ordered, urgency in his voice. "The spell of the flames will only catch you deeper and pull you into its power! Smother it out!"

"I cannot!" he screamed.

"Look away from the fire!"

The spot around the burning arrow tip began to glow brighter and then caught flame. By thought, Angmar called to his brother and began to intone a calming chant, words of soothing in an ancient tongue.

The dark is stronger than the light;  
The night is quicker than the day.  
Take comfort in ice and sorrow,  
Safety in a cloak of shadow.

"My Captain for all time!" Rutfîmûrz groaned in relief as Angmar's words took hold in his mind, and he began to feel calmed. A scene flashed in his thoughts for a brief instant. Two men led their horses in the twilight and talked quietly as they walked along a shore. One man was taller than the other, and his dark hair tinged with silver blew about his shoulders in the sea breeze. The younger man spoke earnestly but the elder, taller man only smiled, his gray eyes twinkling in mirth.

"Who was this man?" Rut wondered, and then he knew. It was his Captain, once a great lord among men, and they had they paused and looked at the sea as the waves rolled in and the gulls called overhead. "Where was this and when?" Rut mused, but he did not know, and the image fled before his mind like the waves receding back into the sea.

The Sixth felt strength flow into him from his king. He summoned his will and chanted a spell of cold, oozing ice and smothering darkness, surrounding and quenching the flames until nothing was left of them but a tiny mist that was blown back in the wind.

"Back! Back!" Angmar shouted. "Towards the fortress and away! Put distance between us! Then we will come back and dive upon the Elven bastards and give them unyielding hell and fury!"

As the beasts of the Nine flew effortlessly back towards the West, Number Eight asked with feigned innocence, "Rutfîmûrz, a little careless today, are you not?"

"I have listened to your base attempts of humor far too long, Skri, and it has finally taken its toil," Rutfîmûrz snarled angrily. Then he added as an insulting afterthought, "I am glad our quarters in the City are far apart, and I do not have to hear your accursed music or your raspy voice as it croaks out discordant melodies, more resembling the moaning of some dying animal than singing!"

"You have always been envious of my singing and have not the strength of character to admit it, Rut," Skri said smugly, always self-confident and assured.

"I am in no mood to hear your humor today. Look at my saddle! Nearly ruined! There was fine workmanship here!"

The Black Captain, angry at the argument which he considered nonsensical, shrieked, "There is a damned battle going on! Did you forget? You are both so puffed up and enamored at the sound of your own words that you become careless! Pay heed, lest your beasts go astray because of your inattention!"

"My lord, Skri becomes too much after so many years. It was better in the old days when we dwelt further apart. After this is over, perhaps," he said, glancing over to Skrishau, who looked back with a self-satisfied smile upon his lips, "Skri could be sent to Dol Guldur to vex Khamûl and Zagbolg. I would not miss you, fiend!"

"Your mood is foul because you have been thinking too much about the Rohirric wenches, and how you would rather be riding them than your beast right now. Saddle rubbing your crotch and making you randy?" smirked Skri.

"Detestable scum! At least I do think about them!" hissed Rutfîmûrz. "Your only thoughts are of corpses and the wife of the False Judge!"

"I strive for both the obtainable and the unobtainable; the Dead and the Undying," Skri replied with cool apathy.

Irritated, Rutfîmûrz snapped, "Then sate your lusts upon your corpses! I shall spend my nights between warm, living thighs and not among the cold dead in the tombs!"

"Have you forgotten again that we are fighting a battle? Let us wage war and not dwell upon the pleasures and eccentricities of either of you!" Angmar hissed with disgust. "Any more of this talk and I shall send the both of you to the Room of Reflecting Shadows back in the City! Or, perhaps, if you prefer, the Room of Inverted Light!"

"Not that!" they both wailed.

The Nazgûl guided their beasts upward and then swooped down low. "Ready arrows again!" Angmar screamed as they flew closer. "Pierce the hearts of the sorcerous Elves! Let them die, vomiting up their own blood! Aim your arrows!" he cried as he reached his hand back into his quiver. Nocking an arrow, he let it fly towards the bright Elf-lord. The other Nazgûl chose their targets and set their deadly barbs rushing towards their victims.

The Witch-king's aim was true, but the Elf raised his shield and the arrow tore through it, splintering the surface. The Elf-lord swayed in the saddle at the arrow's impact, but he did not fall.

"Utúlie'n aurë! Auta i lómë!" he shouted, looking up in triumph.

"Glorfindel!" Angmar screamed as his beast flew over the Elf's head. "Fornost is not forgotten, but this will not be not your day!"

Glorfindel smiled as he watched the Nazgûl soar over his head.

"Captain!" Khamûl wailed. "Let us turn back! The power of the Elves is too great! They cannot be stopped! Who knows what dark magick they will turn upon us next!"

"Cowards!" Angmar thundered.

"I cannot see!" Khamûl wailed again. "I cannot see! I am blinded!"

"At them once more!" the Morgul Lord roared. "Once more! And then, damn you all, we will turn back!"

They wheeled again and fell upon the impudent cavalry of Elves, unleashing arrows of hatred and vengeance, despair and destruction. Now only six arrows struck true. The wounded Elves and their mounts plunged to the ground.

"Pull up!" Angmar cried, but his order was too late, for the Elvish host had prepared their flaming arrows once more.

The beast of Krithnarînuz, the Ninth Nazgûl, screamed as an arrow drove deep into its underside, driving through viscera, black blood streaming out behind it. The beast struggled and then began plunging downward at a dizzying rate. Krith shrieked and held onto the pommel of his saddle as his beast hurtled towards the east until it passed beyond the vision of the others.

"Namárië, Úlaire!" Glorfindel laughed as he heard the Ninth Nazgûl's screams echoing away into the distance.

The Morgul Lord heard the dull thud as a flaming arrow hit his back. The barb caught in the riveted rings of his halberk, coming short of hitting his flesh, for the momentum of the arrow was weakened by the distance of the flight. The Black Captain caught the stench of smoldering cloth and then his surcoat caught fire, turning him into a flaming ebony candle burning in the sky.

"Damn!" his piercing shriek rent the air as he tore at the surcoat, but he was hampered by both belt and quiver. His bow fell from his hand as he struggled with his quiver and then, tearing the strap away, he flung the quiver aside. After loosening his belt, his fingers fumbled to pull his surcoat out from under the restraining girdle. His face contorted in horror as he felt the fire licking at his gloved hands. The Nazgûl Lord screamed, a long, keening wail. He fought to keep control of his will and his senses. Though all his instincts filled him with unreasoning panic, he fought to master himself, shrieking a loud, piercing wail as his beast caught his fear and began to tremble.

The Wraith Lord would use no sorcery as did his brother, for he did not wish to redirect his will from creating fear in the hearts of the riders and their horses. He calmly reasoned to himself - "You do not fear the fire. What could it do to you, really? You cannot die. After all, you are a Lord of Immortality." - but a deep primeval dread filled his heart. He could simply cast a cloud of shadows about himself and withdraw back to the Deep, but he felt that to do so would be a show of weakness to his enemies. So the Witch-king of Angmar fought his own battle with the fire and his pride.

His steel crown flickered red in the reflected light from his burning surcoat. "Skai," he moaned as he finally wrenched the flaming surcoat over the top of his head. Thrown far to the side, the garment fell, burning, towards the ground. Cursing, he noticed his crown was knocked askew on his head. With a twist of his hand, he set it right.

Glorfindel and the other elves laughed in glee as they watched the burning surcoat in its fall to the earth. "We have displeased the Úlairi today and they do not find mirth in our jest," Glorfindel chortled.

His face a grimace of rage, Angmar clenched his fists around the high pommel of his saddle. "You will look as a fool when word of this reaches Lugbûrz," he told himself. He shuddered when he thought of the displeasure of his Master when this news reached Him. "The battle goes ill for us," he chided himself. "What more can we do? We have given our all."

Then a voice, cold and deadly, spoke in his mind. "More, My little king! You can do more!"

Angmar considered the powers that his Master wielded and he wailed even louder.

"My lord," the voice of Udukhatûrz spoke, "we should not forget the plight of our comrade, Krith. His beast has gone down somewhere far ahead of us. Should we not go to his aid?"

Skri, his voice sardonic, answered, "Is the Ninth not easily forgotten?" He mused with all the humor of an embalmer, "Mayhaps the walk will do him good."

The Witch-king turned his head slowly. Skri caught the look in his blazing eyes and fell silent.

"Then go out and find him!" Angmar hissed.

Skri bowed his head to his lord. Then he turned his beast and they flew away towards the east.

"Where is the path? I am lost again! Guide me, brothers!" Khamûl cried in an unsteady voice.

Angmar thought, "Folly! All is folly! Disgraced, shamed! Whips, chains and fire - the fate of all those who fail, and we have failed!"

He thought of past punishments and trembled. Then, striving again to control his will, he commanded himself to give the order to the seven remaining Nazgûl to return to the fortress.

Glorfindel rode forth from the group of Elves and stopped beside an object ahead of them. Then, dismounting, he bent over and picked it up. "The Witch-king's bow," he exclaimed, musing as he looked down at the black bow. "His own hand has touched it and there are evil things written here. He will not be pleased at losing this."

Glorfindel rose to his feet, holding the bow. "We will look now for his quiver and perhaps some of the arrows that he unleashed upon us. When they are gathered, do not touch the tips of the barbs, for they harbor great evil. When we have time to study the bow, quiver and arrows, perhaps our skills can devise some remedy to their spells."

"Or some defense," another Elf suggested.

"Or perhaps even a device for their destruction," a younger Elf ventured. "In ancient days, so the the lore goes, there were blades bound with spells that could destroy the Úlairi. Though the secret to the making has been long lost, perhaps it might be regained."

Glorfindel looked at the Elf as a slow smile spread over his face, lighting up his eyes.

"Indeed, these things could prove quite useful someday."

Then he saw the enemy cavalry ride down the Dike. Within the half hour, the sun would ride the height of her zenith.

"They wish another taste," Glorfindel announced, "and we shall give them a whole meal!"

* * *

NOTES

Black Speech:  
"Broshan, Honal! Garmadh aarsh-lab-ir!" - Hail Seer! Ruin upon your day!

Elvish (mostly Quenya):  
"Aiya, Úlairi! Mae govannen! Le suilon, Angmar o Carn Dûm!" - Hail, Nazgûl! Well met! I greet thee, Angmar of Carn Dum!  
"Nai haryuvalyë melwa rë!" - May you have a lovely day!  
"Leithio i philinn! Ya línna ambanna tulinuva nan!" - Fire the arrows! What goes up must come down!  
"Namárië, Úlaire!" - Farewell, Nazgûl!  
"Utúlie'n aurë! Auta i lómë!" - The day has come; the night is passing  
"Úlairi" - The Nazgûl (plural); "Úlaire" - A Nazgûl (singular). (Literal meaning: Wraith)

There are several maps which chart the progress of the battle in Chapters 21, 22, 24, 26 and 27. You may view them on the authors' personal webpage, which can be found via a web search for The Circles by Angmar and Elfhild, or The Library of Minas Morgul. Our page is the one hosted by Byethost22.


	25. A View into the Palantír

Chapter Written by Angmar

In the Dark Tower, the Master could not take His gaze off the Ithil Stone. His stormy Eyes, molten pools of lava, mirrored the amber glow of the great bursts of fire which spewed forth from Orodurin. Silently, He watched all that was transpiring in the Deeping Coomb. He was calm, though, as He looked into the depths of the palantír; all too calm. His black form was still and unmoving save for a slight tapping of a finger upon a thigh, reminiscent of a large cat who, in its agitation, slowly switches the tip of its tail back and forth.

"If only it would pacify Him, I wish he would put the cover back over the seeing stone," the Lieutenant thought, fretting and wringing his hands. That would not, though. Nothing could placate Him now. The battle went ill, and He would be more wrathful than ever at this impeding loss of His victory.

"Someone will pay for this," the Mouth thought, "and I am very glad it will not be I. The spectacle of their torture should prove interesting to watch, though."

He smiled to himself.

"Why do you smile?" a cold Voice asked.

Fearing that he would be misinterpreted and caught in a possibly unpleasant situation, the Lieutenant rolled his oily tongue around in his mouth and thought quickly.

"Mighty One, I smiled when I thought of the false hopes that this apparent triumph will raise in the hearts of Your enemies. I am thinking of all the opportunities we will have to play upon their concepts of a perceived weakness."

"We?" A dark eyebrow raised. "We?" He repeated.

The Lieutenant considered. "O Great Delight of the Flows of Power From the Earth, Celestial Majesty Who Is Omniscient and All-Powerful, Everlasting Regent Who Thinks With the Same Thought as The Great One Beyond Us, I am unfit to let Thy shadow fall upon me! I am but a man and sometimes I misthink the words that I use. Forgive me of my infirmities and pardonthe mouth of Thy servant."

"Sometimes you set yourself too high in your own estimations, a lofty position to which you think you have attained. Never imagine for a moment that because you serve as My Mouth, My spokesman, that you also operate as My Mind. You never can and you never will. Forgiveness is granted, for you are clever enough to display your humility well."

"Master, You show great patience and mercy," the Lieutenant said sincerely.

"Only great Powers are capable of extending true mercy," Sauron said softly and kindly, and the tapping of the finger upon His thigh slowed. Within the palantír, a battle raged and the Dark Lord saw more of His vaunted Easterling cavalrymen fall, pierced by spears or felled by swords.

He looked to the Lieutenant. "I am much aggrieved. Such carnage!"

"It is no fault of Your own that these incompetents have failed. You had planned this campaign thoroughly and Your strategy was infallible, perfect, but," the Mouth sighed, "they have snatched defeat from the very jaws of victory!"

"It is more than the failure of man, My Lieutenant. The Others meddled again as they did in the South! My self-deluded kindred!" Sauron sighed heavily and groaned. "Always do they strive to work against Me! Constantly they plot against My rightful rule or they try to use men, whose minds are weak and cannot understand, as devices to fulfill their treacherous plots and conspiracies. They work to bring about My undoing, the undoing of us all!"

The Dark Lord's heart was troubled and as heavy as the web of dark shadows which wove themselves around the Tower of Black Adamant.

"Great King of Earth, the Valar are drunken, besotted upon their own lusts and vanity. They live in idleness, sloth, and are jealous of the work that You have done, of Your rightful place as Lord of All. But You are far wiser than they, and it is You Who will win in the final account. This battle is only a minor, temporary setback in Your Great Design for all of Arda. You have only to look upon Your own Finger to see the proof of this. Yes, Great One, the Treasure has come back to You!"

"There the Others failed in their desires to foil Me, but it was far too close, much too close! Besides My own kind, upon whom rests the most blame, Lieutenant, for this great defeat? And yes, Lieutenant, call it what it is: defeat, destruction, the denial of the great push to the North." His Voice was disappointed.

"Undoubtedly it is the fault of the Witch-king of Angmar. He does not quite seem the same since the South. Even though there was a great victory at Pelennor, things did not go well in the rest of the South. Considering his great losses and blunders there, perhaps he has lost confidence in himself, and thus his usefulness wanes. Then, of course, after him are the rest of his brethren and then Maugoth Tahmtan and all the high ranking officers. There needs to be a reshuffling, a purging of all those who failed."

The Mouth counted off the list of offenders on his fingers. He felt himself in perfect accord and harmony with his Master, so much so that usually his mind felt as one with that of the Dark Lord and he was only a mirror reflection of the Maia's thought. The Lieutenant paused in his recitation of the guilty and looked to his Master. "Yes, Great One, it is Angmar. His follies are the chief cause of the disaster!"

His expression changed from the narrow look that he had to one of surprise, as though a new thought had come to him, a revelation. "At least it would appear to be incompetence; I would not wish to call it disloyalty, but considering his past record..."

Though his mind was an echo of the Dark Lord's contemplations and wishes most of the time, the Lieutenant had been allowed to retain a good measure of his own thought. Underlings who only mimicked what their leaders did and said words their leaders might wish them to say were not as effective as those who retained a degree of individuality. Such a one was the man called the Mouth of Sauron, and though he had a oneness with the Maia Who had ruled him for so long, his distinctness of personality still left him prone to many of the lesser qualities of mankind.

He was jealous of the Witch-king, though he did not know quite why himself. It was not only the great powers that the other possessed, the city that he ruled as though it were his own, the vast riches that it was reputed that Angmar had gathered over the many years of his sojourn upon Arda, or the women whom he collected like flowers to be planted in his pleasure gardens. It was the man himself. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr had known for many years that the Witch-king held an exceedingly low opinion of the Lieutenant, one which the Mouth had always felt was unjust.

The Mouth considered that, while it was appropriate that Angmar would view mortals as lower than himself, such a designation should not apply to him. The Mouth had never liked the Witch-king's arrogance and over the years had grown to hate him. At least the loyalty and dedication that the Lieutenant had for the Dark Lord was unquestionable and above reproach. Such could not be said for Angmar! The Lieutenant judged that if the Witch-king were left to his own devices, he would once again set to work carving out his own kingdom to rule. The other craved too much power, while the Lieutenant was content to be what he was.

"But then again," the Mouth ventured out loud, "with the return of the Treasure, he can be kept under better control." He suspected - nay, he was certain! - Angmar and several of the others had deliberately blundered in the search for the Master Ring! No one so shrewd and cunning as he knew the Witch-king to be could fail so dismally unless he deliberately wished to do so.

"What befalls him or any of his brothers is not your concern, Lieutenant. All will be dealt justice. The men will be given a chance to repent before they die in torture. The Nazgûl will suffer other dooms..."

Sauron's face lit up with gleeful anticipation at the punishments He would deal out, for the strong rod of rebuke commanded respect, and there could be no order if there were no respect. And was it not just that those who had failed Him most should be punished with greatest severity? Still He regretted being forced to do this, but if He did not, it would be considered that he was lax towards criminals and traitors. He must set an example for His own minions. All would be treated fairly, though the torments would be harsh.

"Aye, Mighty Power, the failures deserve to die, every last one of them. And Your sons, the Nazgûl, will learn well from the loving chastisement at the Hand of their Father."

Sauron turned back to the palantír and scowled. Then His look turned to one of great weariness and pained longsuffering. He thought of the endless years that He had tried to undo this shambles that his brothers and sisters in thought had created. How misguided they were! He knew that He had been successful to some degree, for the world had not yet fallen into complete disorder.

The only thing that kept Arda from sinking to ruin, disintegrating and turning into endless fragments was the strength of His great power which held it together. Such ordering of the world, though, required great concentration, and few appreciated His efforts. He had always regretted, however, that the implementation of order, even though it was for the overall benefit of the whole, was resented by the unenlightened, the men of the West, and always had they striven against Him, trying to disrupt His orderly designs. They had all refused to listen to good reason because of the greed of their avaricious hearts and their thirst for land and power was ravenous. They were jealous of Him and sought to take from Him what was rightfully His!

Not content with their own island, they had in the age before turned their attentions to His own lands. Their offspring had come to these shores like a ravening horde of locusts and spread themselves across like a blight, devouring all and usurping those who served only Him.

"Lieutenant, only you have the slightest bit of comprehension of what I seek to do, and even you cannot see it in its totality."

How He suffered by the holding of the world! He must safeguard all that was good and protect it from His vicious kindred who were selfish and cared not for the plight of the world nor of men. They did not even live on Arda now, having abandoned it endless years ago. Reveling in their vainglory and cloaked in pretense and thinking they were better than all, they had moved their habitations when Númenor had fallen into the waves. His selfless devotion, His adherence to Melkor's plans, had earned him ill favor with the others from the beginning, but still He knew in His heart what was right for the Arda. Only Melkor's Song had been true, a sweet melody set amidst the discordant strains of the others.

But Melkor was here no longer and had felt the cruelty of the Valar for His efforts, and they, in their hatred and envy, had callously hewn the very legs from beneath Him and cast Him into the darkness. Should their malice turn to Him, Sauron knew He would endure a like doom. Perhaps He would suffer a martyr's fate, as did Melkor. That sacrifice, perhaps, would be worth it, if only He brought some harmony and order to the shambles of the Valar's misbegotten creation ere their fell stroke of malice struck Him down!

"Lieutenant," the Dark Lord said sadly, "You know My great love for Middle-earth, how I have always tried to safeguard and watch over all that has been in My keeping. Have I not been in all that was made, having My own part in both the Song and the Creation? Why do they continue to reject Me as they did my Master? All We ever wanted to do was have an orderly world, not one filled with chaos and confusion, but always did they wrestle against Us. Will they never listen? Will they always oppose Me and My plans?"

"Ever are mortals foolish, Great One, and many are lost, deceived by Your jealous, wayward kindred. They are blind and do not see the Light, for if they did, they would love You and set You in a high place. Only You, Great One, can ever lead them to true enlightenment."

"Your words are true, Lieutenant, and ever do you speak for Me. Only you, and no other, have a glimmering of the essence of My Mind, and," He said, an intimation of His thought and feeling, "only you know how I suffer."

"Master, as a mortal, I can only know a glimpse of the great grief in Your heart. Though man can suffer greatly, only one of Your elevated kind can truly know misery, and when part of Your creation is in disarray, it pains Your total essence. All disappoint you. Your kindred betrayed you. Your sons have failed You yet again, and though it is necessary, it will grieve You to punish them, and... it pains me to my heart to say this: Angmar has always been a rebel."

Yes, only the Lieutenant had any understanding of Him. Sauron knew that in the end, He would be doomed to suffer the ultimate torments, but it was better for one to suffer than for the many. Fate was cruel... unless one controlled it. The order of all should be Melkor first and Sauron second, but it would not be. He knew that He was destined to pain, but to the very end, whatever that might be, He would fight against the madness of the One and the Valar! The struggle was not yet over.

"It encourages Angmar to let him think that he has independence and this makes him more efficient." The Mouth was becoming tedious today. He did not need to remind his own Master of what needed to be done.

"Great Lord, strike me dead if my words displease You, but what great work has he ever done for You? When the Great Misfortune befell You and the Prize was stolen," the Lieutenant looked diffidently down at the floor, "he spent six hundred years playing in his own kingdom in the North. He later vowed that this was done in Your behalf and led to the final destruction of Arnor. He wished only power for himself then and not for Your benefit. You have beheld his thoughts and You tell me even now he still wishes his own kingdom to rule."

"Perhaps he will have it someday... but not for long years. He has much yet to learn."

"He does not deserve Your favor."

Yes, the Lieutenant was becoming exceedingly tiresome, and Sauron could read his jealousy for Angmar. The Mouth was dangerously close to overstepping his place.

"You are a snide little bastard, Lieutenant, and, as ever, envious of the Morgul Lord. You are far too critical of him. Go back to your books of sorcery and your peeping, mumbling spells. Be very glad... and humble... that you are not the one to be served the feast of punishment this time.

"I will remain by Myself as I have ever been since my Lord was ripped away from Arda. Now," Sauron said mournfully, "He languishes in the Timeless Void, beyond the dragon-guarded Door of Night made of black basalt, a great and mighty God banished, wandering, encompassed about by sorrows, unfulfilled dreams, plans, designs... crushed by the ruthless will of perverted and froward minds. He, once greater in power than all the others and endowed with gifts sublime, brought low! He, though fallen, still retains the nobility, grandeur and grace that is His essence. My King! I mourn You still!"

"It is far beyond me, Master, even to try to understand the sufferings of the Powers! O Spirit of the Great Melkor Returned to the Earth, I am a debased parasite and a plague, not fit to be in Thy presence. Kill me now lest I perish in the glow of Thy light!"

"Yes, you are a parasite! I should slay you, but at least you know that you are filth! Many do not. Begone! You are dismissed! Do not come back until I summon you!"

The Lieutenant worried that his Master was going mad as His Master before Him had done from the wretched long years of failure and defeat. Already Sauron suspected treachery from every quarter, and fear of the wrath of the Valar weighed heavily upon His mind. How close had the One Ring come to being destroyed! His Master had sensed the hands of the Valar in every strange coincidence, in every western wind. "How much time still remains ere they destroy part of the earth in their fury and Mordor sinks beneath the waves as did Númenor?" the Mouth thought. "They are abhorrent and merciless and care little of the unutterable suffering the cruel stroke of their wrath would bring!"

"Do not fear. I am not going mad, but I am greatly distressed," Sauron said in a soft hiss. "I know My kindred. They will be pleased at this defeat and think that they have preserved their precious West. The balance of power remains as it was before, though the scales have tilted slightly in Our favor. I will not wage war again for a while. Let them grow negligent again, forgetful, secure in their perceived triumph. Then the time will be ripe for the next great strike. For now, We will rest from Our labors and rebuild Our strength."

"Aye, they will grow lax and careless once more."

"Leave Me now, Lieutenant. I must ponder these things."

With a bow, the Lieutenant slipped quietly out of the great hall. It was futile to be around his Master when He was this provoked.

Sauron looked back into the palantír. "Beyond all the vagaries of time and space, the unalterable law of all that exists is Mine to determine. It is inevitable, beyond all things and all creatures and all comprehension, that I will rule Arda in totality! It is undeniably ordained and it is My destiny!"

Though His thoughts were somewhat soothing, still the Dark Lord was plagued by many doubts.

* * *

NOTES

"The Enemy in successive forms is always 'naturally' concerned with sheer Domination, and so the Lord of magic and machines; but the problem: that this frightful evil can and does arise from an apparently good root, the desire to benefit the world and others - speedily and according to the benefactor's own plans - is a recurrent motive." - Letter #131, Tolkien Letters, p. 146

"And then there is Sauron. ... Very slowly, beginning with fair motives: the reorganizing and rehabilitation of the ruin of Middle-earth, 'neglected by the gods', he becomes a reincarnation of Evil, and a thing lusting for Complete Power - and so consumed ever more fiercely with hate (especially of Gods and Elves)." - Letter #131, Tolkien Letters, p. 151

"Sauron was of course not 'evil' in origin. He was a 'spirit' corrupted by the Prime Dark Lord (the Prime sub-creative Rebel) Morgoth. He was given an opportunity of repentance, when Morgoth was overcome, but could not face the humiliation of recantation, and suing for pardon; and so his temporary turn to good and 'benevolence' ended in a greater relapse, until he became the main representative of Evil in later ages. But at the beginning of the Second Age he was still beautiful to look at, or could still assume a beautiful visible shape - and was not indeed wholly evil, not unless all 'reformers' who want to hurry up with 'reconstruction' and 'reorganization' are wholly evil, even before pride and the lust to exert their will eat them up." - Letter #153, Tolkien Letters, p. 190

"In my story I do not deal in Absolute Evil. I do not think there is such a thing, since that is Zero. I do not think that at any rate any 'rational being' is wholly evil. Satan fell. In my myth Morgoth fell before Creation of the physical world. In my story Sauron represents as near an approach to the wholly evil will as is possible. He had gone the way of all tyrants: beginning well, at least on the level that while desiring to order all things according to his own wisdom he still at first considered the (economic) well-being of other inhabitants of the Earth. But he went further than human tyrants in pride and the lust for domination, being in origin an immortal (angelic) spirit. ... Sauron desired to be a God-King, and was held to be this by his servants; [see footnote] if he had been victorious he would have demanded divine honor from all rational creatures and absolute temporal power over the whole world."

Footnote: "By a triple treachery: 1. Because of his admiration of Strength he had become a follower of Morgoth and fell with him down into the depths of evil, becoming his chief agent in Middle Earth. 2. When Morgoth was defeated by the Valar finally he forsook his allegiance; but out of fear only; he did not present himself to the Valar or sue for pardon, and remained in Middle Earth. 3 When he found how greatly his knowledge was admired by all other rational creatures and how easy it was to influence them, his pride became boundless. By the end of the Second Age he assumed the position of Morgoth's representative. By the end of the Third Age (though actually much weaker than before) he claimed to be Morgoth returned." - Letter #183, Tolkien Letters, p. 243-4

There are several maps which chart the progress of the battle in Chapters 21, 22, 24, 26 and 27. You may view them on the authors' personal webpage, which can be found via a web search for The Circles by Angmar and Elfhild, or The Library of Minas Morgul. Our page is the one hosted by Byethost22.


	26. Wings of Death

Chapter Written by Angmar

"My lord," Rutfîmûrz called to the Black Captain, "the Rohirrim and the Elves set forth once more. Are we to have another go at them? With both Krith and Skri gone, our powers are lessened. And look, the sun ascends towards her zenith!"

The two Nazgûl flew side by side, Rutfîmûrz on the left of his Captain as they swooped in the air above the fortress.

"You state the obvious, Sixth. Do you now try to rival the wit of Skri? We all feel the force of the accursed light, but we are not cowards, any of us, and we are still strong!"

Udukhatûrz guided his beast into a position on the right of Angmar. "You know me to be as steadfast as any man among us. Yet, if I might be so bold, I would venture to suggest that at times discretion is to be preferred. The sun is most cruel at her apex and the Elves wield fire against us."

"Let them, damn it!" the Morgul Lord cried. "We attack again! Let your voices be heard!"

With that, the Black Captain threw back his head, his teeth barred in a fierce grimace. He wailed, a sound which seemed to come from the depths of hell, as though the iron vaults of Angband were writhing against each other in a tumult of torment. His brothers joined him and all who heard them shuddered and flinched in dread.

"Cut north! Swing in a wide arc and strike them from behind!"

The Seven flew high over the northern cliffs of the Thrihyrne. Then they wheeled their beasts and like seven graceful black swans, they glided southward and then turned west.

The Mordorian cavalry, greatly diminished in number, set forth from the Dike and trotted eastward on the road. All cursed the advancing Rohirrim. The Riders of the Mark felt the warm sun beating down and were heartened. Though there was much grim work yet to do, the Riders were eager to be about it. The officers had done a hasty count of their casualties and were relieved that the number had been so low and equally relieved that all those wounded had been taken back beyond the line to safety. All recoiled at the thought of trampling the wounded and dying beneath the hooves of their horses. The beasts themselves were loath to tread upon bodies, for both the writhing wounded and still-warm dead provided unsteady footing.

His marshals gathered around him, Éomer gave the orders: he and the knights of his house would take the center, his marshals on either side; and the Elvish host divided would take the far left and right. There was little left to plan, for they all knew what they must do; the only fear was that the initial effects of surprise had dwindled away.

"Advance," Éomer commanded as he saw the enemy cavalry ride down the Dike. The Riders set their horses to a trot and soon joined with their allies, the Elves, all falling into position as previously commanded.

"Advance," ordered Lieutenant Kourosh, newly risen in rank, and they rode out into the sun to face the enemy.

Tooraj was in a cheerful mood as was his wont, laughing as they set out. "'Tis indeed a lovely day," he said to Lieutenant Kourosh, "to ride forth so gaily to meet death. We are doomed, you know, sir. Our chances for victory died when the sun rose this morning. We will not come back from this battle." His eyes were directed across the field to the approaching Rohirric cavalry.

"Aye, Tooraj, many of us will not return alive," the stoic philosopher Kourosh replied calmly, "but some will. Should we fall, we can hope to face death like men, unflinching, unyielding, and do our duty to the last." He looked at the enemy, a wry smile on his face. "Who knows? Maybe across that field the Strawheads tell each other the same thing. Men say great things when they attempt to inspire courage in hearts which verge on faltering. All that really matters, whichever the side, is to have it said that one died bravely as a man. Who wants to die a dottering old man in bed?"

"I had rather fancied doing that, sir," Tooraj smiled widely, pearls meeting the sun.

"There is every chance that neither one of us will live beyond the day," said the Lieutenant resolutely as he tightened his grip upon his spear. He moved his shield to a better position.

"Charge!" he shouted.

Across the field from the Rohirric side came the echoing command. "Forth Eorlingas!"

The horses picked up their speed and soon both sides of the field were streaming in a headlong dash, steady hands grasping spears extended before them.

As the Rohirrim charged towards their foes, they once again heard the shrieking wails of the Nazgûl as the riders of death swooped down upon them.

"Sing for them, my lords!" the Black Captain commanded.

"Sing, my lord?" Udukhatûrz threw back his head and laughed. "The enemy has no ear for our music and would say that our refrain was sour to their senses."

"Sour indeed! Our music is not appreciated by the ears of the ignorant," chuckled Rut, "but they will hear it anyway!"

"Sing, brothers!" laughed Angmar.

Focusing their wills wholly upon their enemies, the Seven Nazgûl raised their voices and began to sing a chant of strange beauty, of harmonies hidden deep and buried within hearts and minds, of darkness undeniable, of questing and striving, and the sweet allure of eternal sleep in death.

Matum rûkat mubi oraz  
Nûrl aandar-tab  
Gimb ta agh krai rok-tab  
Badz pu-latub agh nork puzîr  
Amubnar zungat-ta frûm-labu  
Broshn naakhu akûlûrz  
Amubnar zaat-ulu hûn-labu  
Agh thrakat labu bukot-u matum-ob

Gothûrz Skakhu Burzûm-ob  
Bhûl za fli grish-ob  
Sharbturu-Labu-ghaara  
Agh gimb ta turkûrz

AGÂN!  
AGÂN!  
AGÂN!

As the dark chanting melody of the Nazgûl joined together, the horses of the Rohirrim fought against their bits, the beasts' eyes rolling back in their heads as they panicked. Riders tried to master their own fear as their horses plunged and bucked under them and many lost control of their mounts. Yet the Elvish host, unafraid, spoke gently to their steeds, and with their masters' voices and touch, the animals steadied beneath them and raced on.

As the two hosts met, the wails of the Nazgûl intensified until it seemed that the strange chanting penetrated to the very souls of the Rohirrim. Those who had been able before to maintain control over their chargers again tried to summon all their strength and will against the magnitude of the crushing waves of despair which crashed down upon them. The Mordor cavalry mounts raced on though, calm and unheeding of the music of the Riders above. Indeed, some of the Southrons and Easterlings vowed that the animals were charmed by the haunting song of the Nazgûl.

The Seven swooped down, coming in low behind the Rohirrim and the Elves.

"Ready your arrows!" Angmar commanded. "Aim for the King of Rohan and the Prince of Dol Amroth! Destroy those two and the enemy will falter and yield!"

Bows twanged and six arrows streaked out. One striking in swift descent impaled the hide and muscle near the spine of Prince Imrahil's mount. The horse screamed and thrashed and then lunged on until at last its weakening steps brought it crashing down. The Prince was hurled to the ground and landed upon his stomach. By some stroke of luck, the opportunity for a sure kill was lost, but at least the Prince was unhorsed, and the Nazgûl hoped mortally injured.

Angmar laughed as he turned in the saddle and looked back at the work of the others, but his vision was clouded by the power of the sun. Prince Imrahil was lost to his dim sight somewhere down below in the milling swirl of men and horses.

Only six arrows had set off on their flights of death, for the bow of the First was lost. The sun was now glaring full above. The sorcerous power of the wielders of the six barbs was at its ebb, and the men below them were as echoes in their thoughts. Though their minds could no longer fully sense the striving mass of opposing presences below them, there were other strengths that the Six possessed, such as scent and hearing. Though they were at their wane, some of their aims were close, for they had divined the sights that their beasts saw upon the field.

Khamûl, the most hampered by the light, had come the closest of the Six to hitting the King of the Mark. However, his barb struck only the back of Éomer's saddle, embedding deeply in the leather and wood, its poisonous tip rendered useless. Though he had failed, Khamûl sensed that he had been close and he smiled.

"Go back," the Morgul Lord cried, "or you will kill our own cavalry! The two hosts are locked in mortal combat! It is enough! We can do no more!"

While the Nazgûl's vision and strength faltered in the light of noon, Elvish archers with keen eyesight unleashed a hail of arrows after them. Two found their marks in the wings and bellies of the beasts of both Udukhatûrz and Zagbolg.

"Urkuz! The Elves are getting to be better marksmen!" Udu screamed as an arrow hit him in the back, jolting him but doing no harm other than ripping his cloak and damaging his pride. Mortally wounded, his beast turned its head and bit frantically at the arrow. When his teeth finally connected with the shaft, he twisted the missile in his teeth and broke off the end. Maddened in its pain, the beast snarled and tried to sink its teeth in Udu's thigh. The Nazgûl quickly tried to raise his leg out of harm's way, but he was too slow and soon felt the crushing pressure of the beast's teeth around his leg. As he heard the sound of fangs rending his halberk, Udu grabbed the pommel of his saddle with both hands, held on and screamed.

The creature thrashed in the air and then shrieked hideously, trying instinctively in its pain to turn and head east to shelter, to home, to sanctuary. As it flew, a rain of black blood spilled down on those below.

Zagbolg hissed, "My beast has been wounded! These accursed elves are dropping us down like flies! And damn them to the pits of Angband! Our full powers will not be restored to us until the sun begins to descend into the west!"

Zagbolg's beast, hit in its right wing, began to list towards the base of the Thrihyrne. Soon the beast toppled to the side. He bellowed his rage as he fell to the slopes below.

"Nasty fall," Angmar remarked, looking down into the depths where Zagbolg had descended. "Go back!" he screamed, and the remaining Five trusted their beasts to lead them back to safety.

The beasts flew in graceful flight back towards the fortress. Circling in the air above Helm's Deep, Rutfîmûrz guided his beast within easy talking distance of Krakfakhthal.

"Do you know what I want when this damn thing is over?"

"Probably the same thing I want," said Krakfakhthal. "A woman?" he asked.

"To be back in my hall in the East and enjoy a week in bed with the best Rohirric wenches in the land. Not just any, mind you," he said, "but those with hair of spun gold and whose breasts are as large as melons! These wondrous globes will be so heavy that they almost bend the women's bodies double! And hips, ahhh, hips, broad, with some meat on them. No bony ones for me; I like something with substance to hang onto. And endless bottles of the best wine. I need much cheer after this!"

"I do not care if they are bony or fat. I fancy them all - save Dwarves! I cannot tolerate a bearded female, no matter how good she may be in bed! But sadly to say, I have no women to share my bed. Might I ask if I may borrow a few of yours?"

"Ask Skri for a few of his when he gets back," Rutfîmûrz laughed and urged his beast ahead.

"I do not lie with corpses!" Krak spat out in disgust. "Nor Dwarves... or Halflings, for that matter," he added as an afterthought.

Sergeant Daungha, his eyes squinting against the glare of the sun, held his spear firm and braced his arm and body to withstand the sudden impact which he knew was coming. It was a heady, exhilarating sensation to feel the cutting thrust of a spear as it penetrated through the armor and sank into the deep flesh of the foe's body. Then there was the overwhelming exhilaration, a primal satisfaction, to behold the enemy's face convulse in a ghastly look of horror and disbelief.

Spurring his horse fiercely, Daungha leaned forward over the saddle and braced himself as he saw his target thundering towards him. The sergeant grunted as he drove his spear through the chest of a tall, gangling Rohirric rider. The strong muscles of his arm felt a solid strike as the spear point penetrated through the man's armor. Then, as his enemy's padding and tunic ripped, the spear drove into the man's chest, striking and breaking rib bones and then piercing the strawhead's heart. Skewered like a bloody piece of meat upon a spit, the man's mouth gaped open as he spewed out a stream of gore.

Relinquishing his hold upon the spear as the dead man toppled from his horse, Daungha kicked his own steed forward and it leapt over the writhing form of his fallen enemy. Then Daungha smiled as he drew his sword and heard the slick ring of metal as it left the scabbard.

Sergeant Daungha's mount snorted and veered from the still, black mound of a fallen horse, just one of the many lifeless forms in the jagged, bloody line of dead and wounded men and beasts. A tall Rohir, broad of chest and strong of stature, had turned his dappled gray horse after the initial jolt of the charge and now came thundering towards Daungha. From out of the eyepiece of the intricately wrought helm, a set of clear blue eyes flashed vengeance above a face reddened in wrath. Braided hair of burnished gold streamed out beneath the curtain of mail which protected the back and sides of the Rider's neck.

"Min nama is Osric Isensmithson!" Osric of Grenefeld bellowed, looking at the foes before him. "Ic grete éow, Éastléode! Métanath sweordcwealm!"

The man screamed at the Easterling in what the Sergeant knew was Rohirric, but Daungha could not understand any of the words in the angry cry. He did not need to have comprehension, however; he knew the look of battle fury in his foe's eyes all too well. With a roar, the man was upon him, wielding a great, shining sword.

Daungha's horse, still wary of the living and dying flesh upon the ground around him, shied again. As the other's blade came perilously close, Daungha was quick and parried with his shield. As quick as Daungha was, though, the huge man's strike hit his shield dead center, splintering it in the Khandian's grip. Daungha's hand and arm stung and throbbed from the impact of the mighty blow. He winced from the pain and swung at the Rohir, but with a laugh, the giant caught his blade in mid-swing.

"Melkor," he thought frantically, "this man is a monster!"

Sergeant Daungha urged his horse close to the large man's steed and struck out with his blade, aiming for his neck. Quickly, the big man turned his head, and Daungha's blade struck only the curtain of interwoven rings which hung around his helm. The Rohirric knight drew back his sword and metal met metal as his blade clashed against Daungha's. The Rohir's grip was like iron, and as they wrestled for control, Sergeant Daungha knew he was no match for the great giant before him. The Rohir sent Daungha's sword hurling from his hand and brought his blade back to strike at Daungha's neck.

Seeing his move, Daungha ducked as he sawed his horse's reins back and forth, pulling upward on the beast, the signal for his mount to rear. Daungha's horse gave a long, high-pitched whinny and lashed the air with his front legs. Daungha kicked the rearing beast in the sides and the horse snorted, bursting forward with a great plunging leap, carrying him out of the Rohir's reach.

Daungha cast a worried look back over his shoulder and saw that his opponent was not in pursuit. His great sword gleaming in the sun, the Rohir had turned his attentions to other Easterlings and Southrons. The Rohir giant rode amongst them, hacking and hewing them down like ripened wheat before the scythe. He fought like some fell golden god who had descended upon the earth to wreak his vengeance. When his enemies had fled, the great Rohir bellowed a lusty battle cry and beat his sword across his mail-clad chest. The men of Mordor had withered in his fearsome presence and none had been able to prevail against him.

The Mordor cavalry was faltering desperately all across the Deeping Coomb. The sun caught patches of blood on the muddy ground. The field was strewn with the bodies of dead and dying horses and men. Horses shrieked in their pain and suffering as those they had served joined them in their dirge of death. Spears, driven deep into bodies, stood aloft as though a small fleet of ships masts sailed upon the field.

Unbelieving eyes stared from severed heads as though the head was dismayed that it could no longer find its body. When the one line met the other, the initial contact had been an explosion of fury as spears did their deadly work. Then after they were spent, swords cut through the ranks of the living and turned them into the ranks of the dead. Those of the Easterling cavalry who had survived the first charge had almost totally vanished from the field, but here and there the battle still pulsed and raged.

His sword stricken from his hand, Sergeant Daungha looked for a clear patch of ground. After finding it, he dropped lightly from the saddle and took a sword from the quivering, dying hand of an unknown long-maned blonde warrior. Springing back upon his horse, he went to aid his nearest embattled comrades.

He espied Lieutenant Kourosh to the edge of the field. The Lieutenant was missing his shield. Blood dripped from the fingers of his left hand. Alone now, he fought for his life against three emboldened Riders of the Mark.

With a bellowing scream, Sergeant Daungha dug his spurs deep into his horse's sides, drawing blood. He rushed his horse forward and drove into the nearest attacker. With a mighty swing, he brought his sword slashing down and severed the man's head in a single stroke.

Lieutenant Kourosh swung his sword at his attacker on the right. His stroke fell awry, and did nothing but crash against metal. Kourosh rammed his horse into the attacker's mount, the force and momentum causing the man's horse to stumble and move away. Caught off guard, the Rohirric warrior showed confusion in his eyes. A swing with his blade and Kourosh neatly sliced the man's sword arm off. The blood spewed from the severed arteries, and the hewed bone peered awkwardly from the great, rending gash, the muscles and tendons shred. The man screamed as Sergeant Daungha quickly drew the blade back and rammed the weapon through the man's armor into his stomach. As Daungha twisted the sword back, the man grabbed frantically at the blade with one hand, sheering his own fingers in his death agonies, before plunging sideways over the horse. The third attacker, disbelieving all that he had seen, thrust his sword toward Kourosh, who moved slightly aside and plunged his sword into his attacker's throat.

"Daungha! The death shadow was upon me! I was near to singing my last lay! Courageous, brave man, you saved me!"

"Nay, I am not a brave man! I am a bloody butcher, and I am skilled at it! I was in a damn good mood for killing and I still am! Let us cut their hearts out! Peel their scalps with their long manes and tie them to our horses' bridles! Bathe ourselves and our horses in their blood! Drink it in great gulps!" he screamed, filled with the battle fury and caught in another spasm of kapurdri. His eyes flashed madly and drops of spittle edged the corners of his lips and trailed down to his beard.

Lieutenant Kourosh looked at him with alarm. "Daungha!" he cried. "Stop this sort of talking! We will not descend into blood-drinking savagery! Do not give the men of the West that satisfaction!"

"Descend, sir? The drop shall not be a long one. We already are savages!"

"Sheath your sword, Sergeant! It is a command!"

Still clutching his sword, fresh blood streaking the sides, he glared at the Lieutenant. The air seemed to crackle with tension, the battle receding away from them as their own private struggle took precedence.

"Man!" he shouted as he moved his horse closer until he was side by side with Daungha. While Daungha raged and stormed madly, Kourosh took the reins of his horse. "The battle has left us! Come to your senses! Our men are in retreat and we remain here like statues!"

Daungha only stared at him, the wild look still upon his face. He had been caught up in a vision brought on by the battle rage. Fiercely he batted his eyelids, chasing away an image of a fist holding a great pitcher. The hand bent its wrist and the vessel tipped on its edge, blood pouring out over the field, bathing the men in its red blessing.

"Listen to me, Sergeant! We cannot hold them any longer," Lieutenant Kourosh said, his voice bitter. "They have bested us! And look now, even with no trumpet to sound the call to retreat, they have given in and melt now like butter in the heat of the sun!"

Daungha's eyes gleamed like those of a madman's as he felt the hallucination's imaginary blood raining down over his shoulders. The Lieutenant wondered if Daungha might kill him in his battle rage.

"Take your hands off my horse's reins or I swear I will slay you!" Daungha screamed again. He lifted his sword higher into the air. Shaking his head from side to side, he growled like an animal as his braids flew about his head and his mouth sent strands of spittle streaming.

"Then go ahead! Add more blood to the ground. It is but a short path to my heart and I will not raise my sword against you!"

The Sergeant trembled and swayed unsteadily in his saddle. His left hand came down and clutched the pommel of his saddle. He could hear the Lieutenant talking to him, calling to him from someplace far away, but to his mind, the Lieutenant was bathed in blood like everything else. The whole field was covered by a flood. The blood rose slowly, coming to the hocks of his horse. He heard a rushing roar in his ears, like water pouring over a falls. He bit his lips, clenching them, chewing them, until the blood mingled with his spit and oozed to his beard.

"The blood," he mumbled. "It rages about us and covers the field! There is nothing but blood!"

Lieutenant Kourosh feared that the Sergeant would never come back from the place where his mind had wandered. Some did not, their minds withered and blighted by the powerful mushroom brew.

"Sergeant Daungha, come to your senses! There is no blood covering the field! You are bewitched by the draught!"

"Aye," he said and grinned madly. "I have drunk deeply of the cup of blood, and it will be drained dry and empty ere I am finished!" He looked into the sun as he raised his left hand and clasped his sword, slicing his palm as he dragged it along the edge. Then he roared in laughter and licked the blood from his hand, smearing his face as he swallowed the metallic taste of his own blood.

"Then let us go to the aid of our men and share the cup together!" the Lieutenant tried to reason with him.

Daungha's chest heaved in and out as he panted, taking in great gasps of air. A wave of shuddering began to wrack his frame. His sword arm sagged as the blade slowly began to sink and point to the ground. "Yes," he gasped, the madness lessening.

"We will all drink deeply together," Lieutenant Kourosh said calmly, knowing that the siege of kapurdri delusion was passing. He slowly released his grasp on the reins of Daungha's horse.

"Aye," Daungha muttered and sheathed his sword. He shook his head again, his eyes and mind clearing of the draught. The madness spent for the time, the Sergeant felt a sudden sense of doom fall over him. "Sir, Tooraj... where is he? He was with you," he said, his voice full of alarm.

"I think you already know," Kourosh replied sadly. "He lies over there somewhere, amidst the carnage. He died bravely, they will all say. He fell in the last charge, pierced through the entrails with a Rohirric spear." Lieutenant Kourosh looked up at the sky and repeated his most common phrases. "He did all the things that are expected of a soldier: to obey his officers, to follow orders, carry out all his duties faithfully. Now he has fallen valiantly. He was a good soldier." He turned his gaze from the heavens and looked to Sergeant Daungha. "Tooraj was smiling last I saw him. A good, brave lad!"

Sergeant Daungha felt his throat tighten, his mouth dry. "I killed a Rohir in much the same fashion. May Tooraj's death be avenged in what I did. I hate them! I hate them all!" he began to sob. "Every last one of them! Curses upon all their houses! Let pestilence and famine haunt their footsteps, let them see their sons die before their eyes! And when they are old and all is lost to them, may they all die and rot unmourned forever!"

The battle had passed them. Both men, panting, blood flowing from their arms, bruises on face and hands, mail rent in places, sat upon their horses and looked about the grim field. The Easterling cavalry forces were depleted and scattered. The Rohirrim and Elves were in command of the battle and had charged off towards the keep.

"Look," Lieutenant Kourosh cried, casting his gaze about, "the Rohirrim are driving the few survivors of our cavalry before them. Soon they will pound into our forces below the walls of the fortress. May Melkor help us!"

"Aye," Sergeant Daungha muttered bitterly. "Let Melkor help us and all the other accursed Gods join Him! Damn Them all and damn us, too!"

"You know my philosophy: to revere the Two Gods, to do my duty as best I can, to be loyal to those who rule, to be resolved to face whatever may come proudly and bravely," he intoned the familiar words.

"To hell with philosophy!" Daungha cried, his voice filled with emotion.

"Sometimes that is all there is, Sergeant," Lieutenant Kourosh replied flatly.

"I do not wish to speak any more of philosophy, Lieutenant. Did you talk to Tooraj ere he died?"

"Nay, I only saw him fall. He told me before the battle that he wanted me to give you his amulets should he perish. Forgive me. I could not reach him!"

"I will take them from his neck as I kiss his cold lips for the last time, and they shall rest over my heart for ever!"

"There is comfort that he died bravely," his commander repeated the familiar chant.

"That is little comfort for my sorrow! For all your philosophy and high thoughts, the only truth in this world is the law of the sword! The weak will die and the strong shall survive! A wise man lives life to the fullest while he has it and is ready to protect himself and all that he has by his wits and the power of his blade! There is no other verity!"

"Then let us die by the sword!" Kourosh rambled. "And let us drain the cup of sorrow!"

Daungha wondered if Kourosh still believed his own words or if he only repeated them as a mantra to strengthen himself.

"We will drink to the dregs! I go now to avenge the slain. Live by your noble standards if you wish! When that proves futile, die by your own sword! But," Sergeant Daungha said, choking away the last sobs and wiping his eyes with his hand, "as for me, I think I shall live. My luck still holds! Someone needs to survive to bury them all with honor."

Both men, fell and grim, touched their heels to their horses' sides and rode to the west - one man living by honor; the other by might and luck. The sun looked down in uncaring tranquility from the heavens.

* * *

NOTES

The concept of bearded Dwarf women is straight out of Tolkien, though the actual statement was omitted from The Lord of the Rings. See the "Making of Appendix A," The Peoples of Middle-earth, p. 285.

Old English:  
"Min nama is Osric Isensmithson! Ic grete éow, Éastléode! Métanath sweordcwealm!" - My name is Osric the Isensmith's son. I greet you, people of the East. Meet violent death by the sword!

Black Speech:  
All Black Speech phrases are in Land of Shadows (Shadowlandian) Black Speech Dialect and follow the grammatical rules created by Scatha, though some words have been borrowed from other sources (ie. Horngoth, MERP).

WINDS OF DEATH  
Translated by Angmar

Matum rûkat mubi oraz / Death rides upon the winds  
(Mubi = upon; MERP. Ora = wind; unknown origin.)  
Nûrl aandar-tab / Learn its mystery  
Gimb ta agh krai rok-tab / Seek it and feel its embrace  
Badz pu-latub agh nork puzîr / Open your mouth and receive the kiss  
(Pu = mouth; LOS. Zîr = love; Tolkien's Adûnaic)  
Amubnar zungat-ta frûm-labu / As it pierces your soul  
Broshn naakhu akûlûrz / Welcome the icy hands  
Amubnar zaat-ulu hûn-labu / As they clench your heart  
Agh thrakat labu bukot-u matum-ob / And bring you into the peace of death  
Gothûrz Skakhu Burzûm-ob / Great Lords of Darkness  
Bhûl za fli grish-ob / Accept this blood sacrifice  
(Fli = sacrifice; Horngoth/MERP)  
Sharbturu-Labu-ghaara / From Your servants  
(Sharbtur = servant; MERP)  
Agh gimb ta turkûrz / And find it worthy  
AGÂN! / Death!  
(Agân = death (personified); Tolkien's Adûnaic)

There are several maps which chart the progress of the battle in Chapters 21, 22, 24, 26 and 27. You may view them on the authors' personal webpage, which can be found via a web search for The Circles by Angmar and Elfhild, or The Library of Minas Morgul. Our page is the one hosted by Byethost22.


	27. Field of Defeat

Chapter Written by Angmar

Defeat was upon the dark host, crushing in its inevitability. Only those lost to the fits of kapurdri madness could not see its approach. They, unknowing, were oblivious to all save their battle rage. None cared when some man, laughing or snarling, caught in the full force of the passion, gouged out one of his own eyes and hurled the bleeding orb far from himself.

The disaster was a bitter one for the Nazgûl, and the caustic taste of defeat was a corrosive one, infuriating them, humiliating them, casting them into dark and somber ire. The embers of old grievances were kindled anew. Memories better left unsummoned were dredged up and brought to the fronts of their minds. As their tempers flared, their moods grew more fiery, and soon they would begin to lash out at one another openly.

Slowly, the Five Nazgûl swooped down to their own lines. No sooner than the Morgul Lord had dismounted his beast and turned charge of the creature over to his beast keepers than he was beset by dismayed staff members and numerous couriers. He was informed that his headquarters tent had been captured by the Rohirrim early on and then torched. All his possessions inside, and even the standards outside, had either been captured or destroyed. Upon inquiring why the very headquarters of the Morgul Lord had not been better protected, none seemed to have an adequate answer.

"Where is Maugoth Tahmtan?" he demanded. "Why does he not appear before me and tell me these things himself?"

"My lord, the last word that was received from him was a message that he was 'surveying the field from a forward position,'" an aide cautiously informed him.

"Then I assume that means that he is seeking the safest place that he can find. Let the fat fool run! I will deal with him in time."

Then he was issuing orders to his aides to take messages to his other generals with advice on how best to conduct the rest of the battle. Then he turned to another aide and ordered that a bow and quiver of arrows be found for him. He waited, drinking the goblet of wine that an orc had fetched for him, while the the other Nazgûl ordered their own servants to fetch them drink and replenish their supply of arrows. The other four seemed quite content to sit upon their beasts and drink their wine, simmering with unspoken words, while the Morgul Lord attended to his dispatches and his aides. The unpleasantness started out innocently enough.

"You know," said Rutfîmûrz, gesturing with his wine goblet in the direction of the Thrihyrne where Zagbolg had gone down, "that was a good beast that he lost."

"And what about Zagbolg himself?" Khamûl challenged. Zagbolg was a close friend of Khamûl's, and dwelt with him in Dol Guldur.

"As I said, 'twas a fine beast."

"And, of course, you always had something against those from Khand... You always resembled Númenórean scum, self-righteous crusaders! At least I, not like you, can remember from whence I came!" Khamûl spat on the ground.

Both Khamûl and Zagbolg had once been of Khand, the Black Easterling dwelling to the north near the border of Rhûn, and the Fourth farther south along the second of the Two Great Rivers nigh on the city of Ninwi.

Rut studied the Thrihyrne more intently as he took another sip from his goblet. "Not Khand itself, but some of those who come from there... seem lacking in certain qualities."

"You never let that bother you in the least when it came to choosing women during many of your capturing raids," Khamûl said irritably.

"Not everything in Khand is... corrupted," laughed Rut after finishing his goblet of wine.

Khamûl bared his teeth and hissed at Rutfîmûrz. "Númenórean filth!"

At last, Angmar was finished with the dispatches and his orders to his aides. "Why must I always remind you that a battlefield is no place to bring up past grievances? Attend to that in private when we return to the City. Concentrate now upon salvaging what we might. We set forth again," he said quietly, and the two hushed their bickering like chastised servants.

Once again in the air, the Five flew back towards the field.

"I see," Angmar said, irritably tapping the fingers of his left hand upon the pommel of his saddle, "that the Lords Krith, Skri, Zagbolg and Udu have not returned to us. Their presence is missed." He looked about him at the other four riders, two on either side. "'Twould be pointless to send any of you to seek for them, or I mayhap would find myself here all alone."

"My lord..." Rut began to speak.

"Words are not necessary. I am not angry. What is there to say? There are only five of our number now. Never before has such a thing befallen us! Some might say we have performed as though befuddled, robbed of our senses and powerless, and to a certain extent, that is true."

"My lord, if I may speak with your permission," ventured Khamûl.

"It is not necessary, Shakh Krul. As I have already said, we," he turned to Khamûl, "not you, but... we... have failed!"

"Akh, you are right. We have failed." Wailing mournfully, Khamûl hung his head.

"Damn!" the Morgul Lord exclaimed. "I could use some of Skri's biting wit now!"

"My lord, I would prefer something not quite so dry and brittle as bone... I could use a bottle of wine right now," Rut remarked, attempting to break the grim mood. "But in truth, none could match his humor."

Reflecting upon his words for a while, the Morgul Lord smiled wryly and a chuckle escaped his lips. "We could all use a drink."

Gothmog thought to himself, looking to Krakfakhthal and scowling at him, "And I had a wager with Krak that the battle would go well for us. The battle and the bet - both are lost!"

Krak had been silent, and then noticing the gaze of the Third upon him, he was surprised. "What!" he exclaimed. "Lord of Harad, what exactly have I done?"

"Very little," he snarled. "At least nothing of value!" Never would the Third let the other know how angry he was that he had been bested in gambling.

"But, my lord," he exclaimed, a puzzled expression on his face, "I have done my best!"

"Do not make matters worse by quarreling," Angmar spoke. "We are doing naught except rendering each other miserable!"

Cloudy gloom had settled over his thoughts as the Morgul Lord remembered the lackadaisical performance of the Nine in their search for the Ring. He knew the Master was looking upon all of them right now and suspected them. Angmar sensed His fiery gaze upon him and felt His ire.

"Failure again," he thought. "We were always doomed to fail." He hunched his shoulders. Even now with their Rings returned and the renewed power that it brought, Angmar felt impotent, all his plans working for naught.

The sun had crested and the Five circled above the horsemen below them. Their beasts, peering down at the carnage below, smelled the essence of blood. They tugged and jerked against the restraining bits in their mouths, excited by the sights and smells. The Nazgûl knew what the creatures wanted - to sink their ripping teeth deeply into the bleeding masses of flesh. The Five grew irritated and jerked the reins back up as they kicked the beasts in the sides.

Relying on their resources for their vision had dimmed, the Nazgûl flew in low behind the racing lines of horses, launched their five deadly arrows and screamed, cursing the daylight. None were certain whether their marks fell true or not. Then they drew their beasts upwards and turned, swooping and falling upon their enemy over and over again, unleashing darts into their backs.

Far below, riding across the Deeping Coomb, racing in clustered formation, the Elves and the Riders of the Mark galloped on horses fleet and sure of foot. Although the relentless work at the gates with the battering rams had continued throughout the cavalry battles, the forces of Mordor had not yet been able to pound down the doors of the Deep. Although their nerves had been set on edge throughout the cavalry charges and countercharges, those manning the catapults and stone throwers had still gone about their business with grim resolve. Now their cavalry had failed and all that lay between them and the enemy were the wavering forces of Mordor. Many of that number had eroded away in the light like ploughed hill land swept before a flood of rain.

The Mordorian infantry had formed in lines and faced the enemy. Their cruel halberds with their wicked, sharp points and curving knight-grabbing hooks were extended before them, making a defensive wall of daunting, bristling metal.

"Come on, you yellow-haired bastards! Kiss our iron and steel!" the orcs and men screamed at them. "And then kiss our arses!"

Horns blowing, songs of war upon their lips, the Rohirrim came charging at them. When the two lines clashed with a roar, the ground vibrated and the line of men and orcs wavered. The Elves and Rohirrim hit the Mordorians with fell savagery, their spears doing their deadly work. Red and black blood flowed freely over the field as men and orcs fell to pikes, halberds or spears.

Atop the fortress, the defenders looked across the Deeping Coomb and cheered at the sight of the friendly cavalry host. Their foes' attention now was captured by the fierce screams and battle songs of the horsemen as they hacked and slashed their way through. The attention of the besiegers was fully locked upon their attackers and they fought for command of the small bit of ground.

Their exposed backs could not ignore, however, the galling fire of the archers who unleashed volley after volley of arrows. The Mordorians steadily gave ground before the Rohirrim and backed towards the fortress, caught beasts in a trap. Scaling ladders were forgotten, falling to the ground, as the attackers turned to face the advancing Rohirrim and Elves.

"To the Postern Door!" Aragorn cried. The hair suddenly prickled on his neck as he felt the eerie sensation that he was trapped in time. The man felt perhaps he was destined to repeat over and over what had happened before in the early days of March.

Quietly they crept along the Postern Path and then rushed at the enemy blocking the Great Gates. Safe from the arrows and spears from above by the protective canopy of skins, the orcs who manned the rams had been confident of their success, but the unexpected taste of steel soon turned their plans to blood. In dismay, the survivors tried to flee, but they were cut down before they could make their escape.

Soon others with axes joined Aragorn and his party of men, hacking the orcs asunder. After destroying the frames upon which the rams rested, they hurled them and the dying orcs from the ramp and causeway. A great, tumultuous cheer of triumph burst from their lips, a signal for those inside to open the Great Gates.

"My lord," shrieked Rutfîmûrz, "once again we cannot tell who is friend or foe!"

"Hold your arrows," the Morgul Lord hissed bitterly. "Circle above the fray and chant a lament, for victory is stolen away!"

Finally with sword and spear, the first line of Rohirric cavalry cut a deep swath through the defensive line. Now with a great shout, the besieged Gondorians and Rohirrim rushed at their enemy's flanks and rear, hewing and slashing with sword and with axe all who would not give them ground. Mordorian officers frantically shouted orders and those ranks closest to the fortress faced once again towards the walls, but relentless blows chopped and hewed them to bits. With victory so recently in their grasp, thoughts of capitulation were a doubly bitter draught to taste.

"Hold steady, men!" the Mordorian officers cajoled. "Do not break rank!" But words of encouragement went unheeded on minds that had turned only to thoughts of fleeing. Pandemonium, confusion and chaos now ruled the ranks of Mordor.

At his command post a safe distance from the fighting, Maugoth Tahmtan told his adjutants, "I will not give the order to sound the retreat. Never will it be said that I left the field unchallenged!"

"But, sir," was the reply, "our men are being cut down, slaughtered! The enemy cannot be stopped! They come at us both from the back and the front! You must order the call to retreat! We must retire to another position!"

"Nar!" Maugoth Tahmtan shouted. "They are to hold to the last! Give the order that if any tries to run that he is to slain like the coward he is!"

"Sir," Mautor Vivana, his second-in-command, suggested, "look there upon the map," the small, dark man pointed at a place upon a parchment map in his hands, "let us fall back here... to this place and establish a defensive line. There perhaps we can draw them out into an attack and blight them with arrow fire."

"Nar!" Tahmtan shouted again. "Let no more be said of this. The man who has the word 'Retreat!' on his lips will be arrested for insubordination and faltering under fire!"

"Aye, Maugoth," Vivana said with resignation. "Then you wish a fight to the death! So it shall be."

Crouched under the protection of a ruined wain, two orcs of the Dushgoi host hid from the sun and the battle. Peering out from between the wheels, they watched the fighting that raged nearby.

"Garn, mate! It's going badly for them!"

"Lugag, it will go badly for us, too, if we're found by any of these damned strawheads or tarks! Things will go even worse for us if we are caught by our own officers! Maybe we should not have run."

"Be quiet, Bashrash!" hissed Lugag. "It was your idea to run, not mine! You always get us in trouble! I never should have thrown in my lot with you, brainless fool! It was your idea to pinch that swag from those burial mounds near the City of the Horse-lords, and that was against the orders of the Higher Ups! Pizbûr Ruzkû had us both whipped for that trick, he did. He made the lash dance around our legs and we stepped to a merry little tune! I still remember their laughter!"

"And you were just as eager to go for it as I was! Don't start acting all high and mighty on me, now!" Bashrash growled. "I'm sick of your whining voice! Shut up or I'll slit your belly and run your legs through the hole! If you can keep quiet, when it's night, we'll take off running, but you go one way, because you dirty sucker, I'm going the other!"

"My pleasure," said Lugag. "I'm sick of you and this place and this army! If I ever live to get back to my den, I'm just thinking of me, nobody else!"

"That's all you ever think about anyway! Save your own hide, Lugag," snarled Bashrash. "Nobody cares about it but you!" A sudden gleam in his eyes, he slipped a dagger from his belt and, snarling, lunged forward at Lugag.

"I expected that from a bloody coward like you!" hissed Lugag as he quickly darted out of the way. Then drawing his own dagger, he sprang upon Bashrash, cutting a bloody gash across his face.

"You piece of dung!" screamed Bashrash, shaking his head, streaming blood. A quick fist caught Lugag full in the mouth and then Bashrash tried to move away. Spewing out bloody spittle and broken shards of teeth, he flung himself at Bashrash, his dagger slashing.

They grappled with one another, wrestling upon the ground until Lugag pinned Bashrash to the dirt with his weight. Then his dagger went down, down into the other's throat, severing his windpipe, bloody bubbles gurgling out and popping in his last breaths.

"That's the last time you'll call me dung!"

Lugag lay panting atop the dead body of the other orc, looking down into his vacant eyes. "Dirty piece of filth," he snarled. "Coward and traitor to the end!"

Bending his head down, his nostrils twitching at the smell of blood, he thrust his mouth upon the gaping wounds and drew out more of the black liquid. "The only thing good about you is your blood," he mumbled as he licked his lips.

Lugag rolled up onto his knees and he set to work rifling his comrade's clothing for valuables. "Ah, I knew it!" he said when he found two silver coins in a pouch on Bashrash's belt. "You were holding out on me all along! I knew you had sneaked out something from that Horse-master's barrow and Pizbûr Ruzkû never caught you! Wouldn't share with your old comrade, would you? Ha!" he laughed. "Now I have it all and you're nothing but maggot food!"

Upon the field, hemmed in between the advancing Gondorians to the rear and the Rohirrim cavalry to their front, the Mordorian line sagged, swayed and then crumbled, melting before the onslaught. There was no horn to herald the call to retreat for all pandemonium had broken out and both orcs and men fled panic-crazed down the Dike. In their fear, some cast themselves from atop the high bank to their deaths below, while others sought for safer paths among the rocks.

The Rohirrim cavalry and their Elvish comrades set upon their foe as they fled, driving them before them like cattle to the slaughter. Behind, the Gondorians in the fortress slew the orcs there to a man.

"Mercy!" cried some of the Easterlings caught alone away from their host.

"Mercy! Mercy!" were the Gondorians' angry shouts. "You would give us none! Yield then and show us proof!"

"We surrender! Have mercy!" they cried as they dropped their swords, some falling to the ground on their hands and knees in supplication.

"Round them up and take them back to the fortress," ordered Aragorn. "Guard them well but let no harm come to them. We will not have it said that the men of the West kill surrendering foes! Give them water and see to their wounds. We are not heartless conquerors!"

"Thank you, kind Master!" many of them said in gratitude, bowing and doing obeisance.

"I am not the master of men," said Aragorn, and set back to the work at hand.

A group of Easterling cavalry had been cut off from its retreat and was hopelessly outnumbered. Many of them wounded and hemmed in by a ring of ash spears, they glared at their conquerors.

"It is hopeless, men of the East!" cried a great Tulkas of a man in Common Speech. "Do not die uselessly! Surrender and no harm shall come to you! But talk among yourselves first. We will give you time."

Corporal Babak, highest ranking surviving officer present of the company, wounded in the side by a sword thrust from the enemy, thought, "It would be far more honorable to fall upon our swords than to surrender to these dogs. But on this day, all honor died."

He talked to his men in their own language. "Men, let us choose life today rather than death."

"Sir, it is shame to die in dishonor! We should not surrender to them!" urged one, adamant and obstinate.

Looking around at his comrades, Corporal Babak said, "There is no dishonor in surrender when you are bested, but there is madness and folly in dying for naught. Men, what say you? Surrender and mayhap live to see our families again someday? Or die and see only Darkness?"

"You speak for us now, sir," the others said. "It will be as you say. This field is lost; our deaths cannot make it different. We will surrender."

Riding forward towards the blonde giant, Corporal Babak extended his sword, hilt first. "I am Pizgal Babak, commander of this troop. Accept our surrender. As is the custom in our country, we concede that we are now your slaves," he said bitterly.

Riding towards him, the other man roared in anger, his face becoming red, "Slaves! What sort of foolishness is this? You are prisoners, not slaves!" Taking the hilt of the sword, he said, "I am Osric, a Rider of the Mark. Tell your men to drop their swords! Have them dismount and lead their horses. We will be behind you."

"Perhaps it would have been more merciful to have slain us, Rider of the Mark," Pizgal Babak said, reflecting, as he looked into his eyes. "Only disgrace awaits us back in our homelands."

Osric shrugged his shoulders. "Was it not disgrace enough to fall upon a people who never once did yours harm save in defense of their own land and the land of their friends?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Pizgal Babak said quietly and shrugged.

Then after few orders spoken in their own language, the Easterling cavalrymen, heads bowed low, led their horses towards the fortress.

"Maugoth Tahmtan, the day is lost. We advise you to forsake this field," urged his staff. The hour was around 3 o'clock that afternoon.

"Leave it uncontested in the hands of the enemy?" Tahmtan said warily.

"It is already there, sir," said his adjutant.

The Maugoth was sorely frightened, but no hint in his eyes belied his fear. "Then there is only one thing to do for the good of the army. None have ever said that Tahmtan has forsaken the field of battle when there was still a chance for victory." He looked back towards the fortress where the fighting still waged. "Though I am loath to do it and do so only because of the insistence of my staff, I shall call for the withdrawal of my headquarters staff and myself."

"Then, sir, it must be now, for it will be too late if you tarry longer."

He looked at the man with irritation. "Though I do this with great reluctance and much grieving of my heart, I will withdraw against my better judgment. However," he stroked his dark beard, his eyes cunning and quick, "there is no need to take my standards with us. It would be foolish to alert the enemy to the retreat of the commander of this army."

"What about the standards of the army, my lord?" the adjutant cried in alarm. "Surely we cannot leave them behind to fall in the hands of the enemy! Sir, is this wise?"

"What is more valuable? The commander of the army or its standards? Without the commander, the morale of the army crumbles," muttered Maugoth Tahmtan.

"Sir," the adjutant's eyes flashed sparks, "without the standards to show our pride, there is no army!" He turned to the others. "With you as my witnesses, I will protest when we get back!"

"If we delay much longer, Captain, the only thing that any of us will protest is the rapid approach of death. We move out now! Give out the order," the general commanded, fear in his voice.

"He is a cowardly dog," was the one thought of his staff, "and a traitor to boot!"

Quietly the general, casting glances over his shoulder, rode with his staff from the field, his bodyguard and an escort of cavalry with him.

When Lieutenant Kourosh and Sergeant Daungha reached the festering mass of battle, the Easterling and Southron cavalries were faltering, driven back towards the Dike. Dismounting quickly and turning their horses loose, the Easterlings and Southrons rushed to join their comrades. Wielding their swords against their foes, their steel met that of the enemy. For a while, it appeared that they would drive the foe back, but at last, the entire line broke, and the Lieutenant and the Sergeant were driven back with their fellows. The Mordorian host was in dismay, many running blindly hither and thither, trying to escape their foemen.

"Sir, it is useless," exclaimed Sergeant Daungha. "Let us retreat with the rest unless we wish to die at the hands of the enemy."

"All hope is gone," said Lieutenant Kourosh stoically, and they turned upon their heels and joined the others in the headlong dash towards the east.

Like a giant, wounded beast, goaded and provoked by those who tormented it, the Mordorian host fell growling back towards the east. They were daunted only in their flight by a stalwart rear guard who tried to hold them at bay. At last around 5 o'clock in the evening, those officers who were brave and strong of will rallied the men and they formed a line, and this time it did not yield, for to yield now would be sure death.

"Dig trenches!" came the grim order, and swords and spear points, spoons, knives and hands and fingers turned into spades as they dug themselves protective pits, kept low, and waited for the enemy.

Around 6 o'clock they heard a trumpet sound a loud, clear blast. Soon a small party of horsemen, standard bearers of Rohan and Gondor with them, rode into view. One of the men held a white flag on a long staff, signaling a parley was being requested.

"Send forth a spokesman!" a strong voice commanded. "We would talk!"

Forth rode Maugoth Tahmtan and his bodyguard. Before them they saw a lean, haggard man, kingly of bearing; an old man in a gray cloak; an Elf of wise and noble countenance; a Gondorian upon whose blue surcoat was a silver swan; and a yellow-maned warrior with a white horse tail atop his helm. Behind them rode a great host of Rohirrim and Elvish cavalry.

"I am Tahmtan, commanding general of his army under command of the Black Captain. I am the spokesman for him. By what authority do you offer talk?"

"I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor." Turning to Gandalf, he said, "This is Mithrandir and to my left is Éomer, King of the Mark. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Glorfindel of Rivendell are with me as well. I speak for all of us and those they represent."

"Ah, so we meet, heir of the thief! What crooked words do you have to speak?"

Ignoring the man's taunt, Aragorn went on. "We wish to offer you a truce until dawn to allow you to retrieve your wounded to safety and bury your dead as you see fit. More importantly, you have something very precious in your keeping, the captives, those women and children that your men took and have marched off into slavery. We wish to offer an exchange: all those we have captured to be exchanged for those innocent women and children. General, can you speak upon this matter for your Captain?"

"Nay, I cannot," said Maugoth Tahmtan contemptuously. "He has not returned yet. When he is back, I will give him word of what you have offered, but I can make no promises."

"Then I shall be back ere dark for his answer."

Both parties turned their horses and rode across the field back to their lines.

* * *

NOTES

For the purposes of this AU, it should be taken as a given that some of the Nazgûl, for purposes that Sauron found advantageous to Him, have not been allowed to retain the memory of their lives as kings and lords. He gives them memory as a gift or withholds it as a punishment, or just to have better control over them. Even those who are allowed to remember cannot recall many of the details of their lives, just a general idea of their past. Those who still have some portion of memory are Khamûl, Gothmog, Zagbolg, Krakfhatal, Skrishau and Krithnarînuz. Those who have little or no memory are Angmar, Rutfîmûrz and Udukhatûrz. Incidentally, those are the three lords of Númenor.

There are several maps which chart the progress of the battle in Chapters 21, 22, 24, 26 and 27. You may view them on the authors' personal webpage, which can be found via a web search for The Circles by Angmar and Elfhild, or The Library of Minas Morgul. Our page is the one hosted by Byethost22.


	28. Treachery Rewarded

Chapter Written by Angmar

As Maugoth Tahmtan and his escort rode back towards their lines, a great shadow from the west descended over their path. A cold chill, like a sudden frost heralding an early winter, rippled up and down their spines. Circling above them and then, sweeping down, a great beast landed some paces away from them. The Morgul Lord threw his leg over the pommel and slid to the ground.

"Hail Maugoth Tahmtan! I am surprised that you stopped. I thought once you had started, you would run all the way back to Khand!" Angmar greeted sociably. "Surely," he remarked, mock concern in his voice, "you did not stop for me."

"My lord, hail," the Maugoth sputtered nervously as he bowed. His staff, sensing instinctively what was to happen, moved away. Tahmtan was left alone, facing the one whom no man could kill.

"Maugoth, you look well today. I trust you are in good health?"

"Aye, my lord," he answered, his voice sounding muffled as he took a step backwards.

"And no doubt you had wished to remain so?" laughed the Captain of Despair.

"Aye, my lord," he replied, trembling.

"The hopes of mortals are foolish. You hoped in vain."

"My lord," Maugoth Tahmtan tried to steady his voice, "we did all we could. We were bested, outnumbered. All fought valiantly!"

"Except you, my lord," Angmar hissed, his words falling like cold, chilling daggers, cutting into the man's heart and mind.

"He will kill me," he thought. Involuntarily he shuddered and then fell to his knees, raising his hands in supplication. "I did my best, Great One! Surely you cannot hold defeat against me!" his voice was pleading.

"Was it your best to leave the army leaderless while I was away? And was it your best to relinquish the standards of the Great Eye and abandon them upon the field? The enemy has claimed them as great symbols of victory, trophies. They laugh at us in their arrogance." He looked down at the quavering man as he towered above him, an obsidian column, a spectral standing stone. "The Master was not pleased."

"My lord, I can explain..."

"Doubtless your mind will cloak your tongue with guile. On your feet, Maugoth!" the Morgul Lord snarled. "Do not beg like a cringing dog!"

Tahmtan rose on shaky feet and bowed his head. "My lord, the... the... relinquishing of the standards can be explained. A great force came upon us and slew the standard bearers and drove us back," he lied. "We had not the time to retrieve them."

"False-tongued fool! How do you wish to die?" Angmar asked, a low chuckle forming in his throat.

"Do I have a choice?" he stammered, his body trembling.

"Ahh," Angmar said, tapping his forefinger on his lips, "there are many ways. What would be appropriate for one such as you?" he inquired, his voice imperturbable.

"A quick one then!" the Maugoth cried.

"Do not disturb me while I think," Angmar returned affably. The officers behind the Maugoth drew even farther back. "You trouble yourself unduly." Still tapping his forefinger on his lips, he slowly circled around the terrified man.

Maugoth Tahmtan tried to control his shaking and stifle his impulse to twist his head and watch. At last the King of the Nine finished his circuit of him and stood once again before him. "I have not yet decided," he said in a wearied tone and exhaled.

"You bait me, Morgul Lord!" the Maugoth exclaimed. "Could I at least say a word in my favor?"

"Whatever words you have to offer, say them. I am patient." His hand rested upon the hilt of his sword.

"Great One, I have a long record of service..."

"And destroyed it all in one day!"

"I have had many victories!"

"It was the army that had the victory! You only had the privilege of leading. It is the soldiers who do the fighting."

Once again, the Maugoth fell to his knees, begging. "Please, please!"

"On your feet! Do not soil yourself and the livery that you wear! Leave yourself some degree of honor! Now draw your sword, craven dog, if you can muster the courage. Or will your heart fail you in your fear?"

"I cannot fight you! No man can best you!"

"So it is said," the Morgul Lord replied with a lack of interest.

Total abject terror seized the Maugoth.

"Are you deaf? Why do you hesitate? I said draw your sword! I am giving you a chance!"

With a glance at the dark hood, the Maugoth rose unsteadily to his feet. He drew his sword from the sheath, the steel swishing against the enclosing metal, and stood gazing at the weapon, unbelieving that this was befalling him.

"Why do you stand there like an ox struck dumb?" the Morgul Lord taunted. "Will you make me wait all evening?" He tapped his foot on the ground and drummed his fingers on his sword pommel.

The Maugoth ground his teeth, bearing down on them with all of his might, hearing them as they gnashed together. Then there was but one sound in his mind, the sound of the Morgul Lord's drawing his own long blade, a sickening, sliding noise.

Angmar smiled to himself, aimlessly twisting his sword in a circle. "General, why did you run and abandon the standard? Had you grown complacent, lethargic, because you had been long in good standing? What you have done today cannot be ignored! You abandoned the standards in your flight so that you would not call attention to yourself, so you would not be so easy to find! Surely, you did not think this would be excused?"

The Maugoth looked about him from left to right. All those who had once sought to gain his esteem had turned away now when he needed them. No one would aid him, not now. Gone were his hopes, lost in a single act of cowardice.

Replying with only a curse, the Maugoth charged at him, driving for his heart. The Morgul Lord quickly moved aside and slapped the man across his shoulders with the flat of the sword, a resounding thump on his armor. The Maugoth was driven forward with the force of the blow, sending his sword flying.

"Too slow," Angmar remarked casually. "Get up and pick up your sword."

On his hands and knees, the Maugoth looked up, certain that he was about to die and speculated where the first blow might fall.

"Up, up," Angmar gestured, holding his left palm out and moving his fingers back and forth.

After taking the hilt of his sword, the Maugoth struggled to his feet.

"Did you ever consider that your technique is wrong, and that perhaps you should have practiced more to retain your skill? You have spent too much time watching battles without participating in them. I do not have time to instruct you today, and for this, I give you my sincere apologies."

"Damn you!" the man exclaimed and came at Angmar again, his arm swinging high, but he found his blade was blocked by the Morgul Lord's own. The Maugoth looked into the reddening eyes, and they were smiling.

"I tire of wasting time with a swordsman as poor as you, but if I must..." he hissed, and the great strength of his arm drove the other's sword towards the ground.

Moving slightly to the side, Tahmtan suddenly lowered his sword arm. Quickly with his other hand, he pulled a dagger from his belt, slashing at Angmar's arm.

"That was totally unwarranted," Angmar laughed as he quickly moved to the side. His sword, sweeping towards the ground, curved slightly inward, cutting through the other's mail. The Maugoth winced as a sharp pain caught him in the side, drawing blood. Then Angmar stepped back, assuming a defensive position, his sword thrust towards the middle of Tahmtan's chest.

"Do you need to rest, perhaps?" he laughed.

"No!" Tahmtan shouted, and began to circle Angmar, watching for his next move.

Angmar shrugged his shoulders as he turned, facing the Maugoth. "I am standing right here in front of you. Why do you hesitate?"

Then the Maugoth charged him again. Fiercely sword met sword and the Morgul Lord was slowly driven back. A downward stroke swiftly wielded by the Maugoth tore a black strip of material from the Dark King's sleeve.

"That is a definite improvement!"

Bringing his blade up, the Variag slashed at the Nazgûl's chest but found his blade caught once again by the swifter sword. Then Angmar stepped to the side and brought his blade down low, catching the other off guard, his sword biting into his thigh. The Dark Captain stepped aside and then moved quickly to face him again.

Up came the Maugoth's blade, and he found his once again locked with that of the other. The two stood face to face, their blades locked together. Before his eyes, he could see the grinning face of death take shape out of a mist. A fist clad in leather and rings of metal lashed out and smashed the general in the face, causing him to reel back. Then Angmar was upon him, driving him ever back, his rapid strokes impossible to parry, until once again they stood face to face, swords crossed.

Tiring, the hold on his sword loosening, Tahmtan felt the relentless hand drive his wrist towards the ground once again. Shaking, he stood, bewitched by his own fear. A final quick thrust upon the blade forced the hilt out of the Maugoth's hand and the sword fell, slipping to the ground. A hand shot out and twisted his arm in a cold grasp of iron, forcing him to his knees.

"You tire me, mortal, and still I must decide how you die!"

Stark terror in his eyes, Tahmtan's sweating face looked up at him, staring at the sword which Angmar held pointing downward at him. Blood oozed down from his side and his wounded leg pained him.

"Were you aware of the fact that you reek of fear, Maugoth?"

Tahmtan was silent, waiting for death.

From inside the sheath at his side, the Morgul Lord drew out a long, thin knife, its surface glowing with a pale light. The hooded head bowed as he stood studying the blade intently.

"Not THAT!" screamed Maugoth Tahmtan. "In the Name of Melkor the Holy! Not THAT! No, please!" he shrieked. "Mercy!"

"But does it not gleam with a lovely glow?" the Witch-king asked, his voice filled with reverence. The bowed face looked down at the man. "You do not wish to join us and share our company?" the voice asked questioningly.

"NO!" the man screamed. "NO!"

"That is perhaps the best decision for all of us. Though you deny yourself the privilege of being with a crew as merry as ours, we would not have you anyway. Cowards such as you are undeserving of such gifts. I show this to you only so that you shall see what you will have missed! You are not fit to appear in our presence! Besides," he chuckled, "you take yourself far too seriously. Your lack of wit and humor would not wear well, and you would abide with us a long time, a very long time."

"I am not afraid to die," the man stammered, "but let it not be by sorcery. I know of your ways!"

Angmar shrugged his shoulders. "Your death will be by the sword, for I find little sport in killing by sorcery, though it does have its uses," he grinned. "Had you been brave, perhaps I would have slain you quickly and set your spirit free. But such beasts as you can be of use. Yet though I will slay you, you shall not find escape in death. Exist to torment others as craven as you!"

Tahmtan tried to shut his ears to the sound of the Morgul Lord's voice, but he could not deny the Nazgûl's ominous chant which rose and fell in deep monophony.

Snaga bûrzum-ob, yonk nar ûsum-lab ghashnat  
Ûs sigûrz shum nar drâgh-lab-ob, ziru-lat,  
Mâduruz darûkûrz-lab-ob, olkûrz-lab sat-u agh nariinuz  
Pardahûn lab kulub praush-tab-ishi  
Ufum-lab kulat radbûrz, fulaknar dorozg-lab-ishi  
Kulûk iistuz, kulûk nariistuz kul lab fiithat  
Ukhurk dûmp shara, shakrop krimpuz izish-u  
Unr-izg frûm-lab naakh-izub-izish!  
Tabz-izg lat, Tahmtan Khand-ob, nokh Maugoth, rad snaga,  
Rad ghashn-izg. Frûm-lab kul izub agh obâshub-lat ghashanu-izub  
Rad agh ûkil-ûr

With that spell of binding intoned softly, a welcoming bidding, the Morgul Lord slipped the short blade back into its sheath. Then holding his long sword in both hands, he tapped on the back of the Maugoth's neck. The general had been reduced to incoherent babblings and whimpering pleas. Angmar drew the blade back, and with a powerful swing, lopped the kneeling man's head off in a single stroke. The officers gasped and some looked away. The head fell and rolled to the side, the body toppling over. Raising his sword to his mouth, Angmar licked the blood from the blade and then, wiping the remainder off on his cloak, returned it to its sheath.

"Your soul, though, I will claim, for it already belongs to Mordor, and has for long years. Go back to the City," he hissed softly to a presence unseen by mortal eyes, "and wait for me. I shall return and you will join the others like you whom I command."

He turned to the men of Tahmtan's staff and bodyguard. "He was an exceedingly dull man and had no mirth about him! Throw the carrion to the orcs!" he ordered. "He is not fit to be burned or buried!"

Angmar stepped over the body and stood in front of the men, who fell to their knees before him. "Come, come," he said impatiently, "do none of you have the courage to face me?"

"You will kill us, lord, whether we are on our knees or standing," Tahmtan's second-in-command, Mautor Vivana, said bitterly. "But I will stand before you!"

"Then do! I would see a man of courage. They are rare."

The man rose to his feet and held his head up, facing his commander.

"At least one of you is brave," Angmar said appreciatively. "Tell me now, what did the Uncrowned King and his followers want?"

"He came on a parley to ask a truce, my lord."

"That is absurd!" Angmar said disdainfully. "It could be merely a ruse, a stalling for time until they make their true intentions known, but then again... a truce for how long and for what purpose?"

"Twelve hours to retrieve and bury the dead."

"Unbelievable. They become more foolish every day. This act of good will, as they would call it, will keep them occupied whilst the army retreats to safety. This truce I will grant that, but for that reason alone. What else?"

"An exchange of prisoners, my lord."

"Most unusual. The world is changing," Angmar said, reflectively. "Can I assume that they wish to exchange soldiers for soldiers? Have we taken many of theirs?"

"Few, my lord," the man said regretfully. "They want the Rohirric women and children that have been sent east."

Angmar sighed. "They are of no concern of mine, and I care nothing for them. The foe wanted the same thing in the spring when they sent forth emissaries to bargain after Dol Amroth. No exchange was granted in the spring and it is not in my power to grant one now."

"But, my lord," the officer implored, "is that good policy? In the spring, after the offer of exchange was declined, none of our men were ever seen or heard of again. The thought is, my lord, that after that refusal the enemy slaughtered them, every last one, in vengeance."

"I doubt that. It is not their way. More likely our troops were taken as prisoners of war to be put to labor. But no matter," Angmar said, "we deal with now."

"But Great One," the officer persisted, "one of the sons of the king of Khand is thought to be among the number of those captured! King Shapsusharru will be greatly grieved and wroth if his son is not freed after an exchange is offered!"

"I would agree to their offer for, perhaps, there is more to be lost than to be gained by denying it," Angmar thought to himself, "but it is not in my hands!"

"I will take it in counsel with our Master," he said, his voice final, and he walked away from Mautor Vivana, his head bowed as though in deep thought.

"No exchange," he heard in his mind. "I care naught for the Prince of Khand! But speak to Me, My little king; do not be afrighted. I would hear your words," came the soothing Voice.

"Master, is it politic to ignore this request? One of the sons of the King of Khand is among the captives. His father has been a faithful vassal. To permit this indignity will sow hatred among Thy vassals and breed contempt!"

"You have always been so astute, little kinglet, and I have always put great store upon your words." Before him the Witch-king could see a dark Figure upon a dark throne, a kindly look upon His face. The Voice he heard was patient, kind, longsuffering, overindulgent; everything the Morgul Lord had learned to dread.

"The Master is wroth with me, exceedingly so!" he thought, knowing even his thoughts were being read as he thought them, but the Master had asked for his opinion.

"But, unfortunately, granting an exchange would be a loss of face, and we do not want to do that now, do we? Weakness before an enemy can be a fatal flaw," the Voice said patronizingly. "Besides, rich gifts will make the King of Khand forget all about his lost son. He will not protest unduly." The face of the Figure on the throne smiled beneficently.

"Some are not bought easily and some cannot be bought at all, Master. Mere riches can never bring back that which was lost."

"You ought to know, My most loyal thrall."

The Morgul Lord knew with a grim certainty what awaited him when he returned to Lugbûrz.

"Great Lord, Thou askest for the thoughts of Thy servant, and I would be amiss if I did not offer them."

"You have always been honest, Witch-king, and I have valued that, as I have prized all of your notable abilities. Your candid advice is always considered." The Voice was taking on a taunting tone now. "Your loyalty is... unquestionable... is it not?" The Dark Lord paused, letting His words sink in. "But now, most regrettably, our discussion must come to an end. Go back to your officers, My devoted one," the Voice said sarcastically, "and tell them what I said."

"But Master, I do not think it wise. Thy decision will gender strife, and if I be forthright, it must be said that I do not think we need such discord at this time. It would not be in Your best interests for another rebellion to beset You at this time."

He saw the face in his mind smile and then he saw it no more.

"He is displeased. It will not go well for any of us when we get back. He is turning ways over in His mind right now as to how He will punish us. Perhaps it shall be fire this time, but it is always fire. Seldom does He vary it. Sometimes there are stripes with the fire, sometimes without," he thought wryly. "Perhaps this time He will kill one of us. He has threatened it before. There are few things He enjoys more than holding one of our Rings over the Crack of Doom and then tossing It up and down in His hand. The Master prides Himself on His consistency," he reflected humorlessly.

Suddenly, he felt impelled that he should praise his Master for His unwavering consistency. Against his will, Angmar began to compose a pean of praise and lauded his Master in his mind. "Fire," he thought, "it will be fire. Perhaps it would be better if He ended the whole farce for all of us and carried through on His threats."

Then Angmar turned back and spoke with the officers, who met his words with dark looks.

"No exchange! This will not bode well for the future," groaned Vivana. "But I did not expect that He would."

"You heard my words. When the emissaries come back to you, asking for the decision, tell them that their truce is granted. The answer to the question of exchange will be given an hour after dawn. General, thus we will buy time so that part of the army at least can escape."

"Your order will be obeyed, lord," said the man.

"You, Mautor Vivana, are brave and forthright with little guile and deceit. I can only hope that you have a better sense of humor than your predecessor. I appreciate wit. You and Tahmtan's staff and bodyguard will live!"

"My lord," Mautor Vivana said, "we are grateful!"

"And since you are both valiant and honest and are a good commander, I grant your predecessor's rank and position to you. My next orders to you, my new Maugoth, are to have the men build campfires, as is usual in the evening. Then, after an hour has elapsed, order them to make a great show of noise as though the camp has grown drunken and riotous.

"When the tumult is at its greatest, withdraw the greater part of your forces quietly, keeping some back to tend the fires. Set a rear guard to protect your flanks when the bulk of the troops has gone. After the camp has grown quiet, the enemy will think the revelry sated. Wait a time and send the rest of the men to join the rear guard. Thus, by stealth, many can be saved. We fall back to Edoras, and if my orders have been carried out, we shall find the city burnt. You have heard what l wish done. Now be about it."

"It will be done as you said, my lord."

But the Morgul Lord did not listen to the reply, for he was already striding away. He mounted the beast, and the group of officers watched as the huge creature rose up in flight into the air, carrying the master and steed away.

At the appointed time for the truce, parties of men were sent out to ride across the field, taking with them wagons pulled by teams of horses. When they reached the quiet, bloody field, the men dismounted and walked quietly amid the screams and moans of the injured. Holding torches as they searched for their dead and wounded, ahead of them they could see the lights of the Rohirrim, Gondorians and Elves searching for their own. They passed each other wordlessly as they went about their grim work.

Seeking his own dead, an Elf chanced by, and stopped when he saw one man holding a torch while another knelt upon the ground. The kneeling man, who was cradling a blood-soaked body to his chest, looked up at the Elf.

"Go away, Elf-demon! I see your devil's ears! I want to see none of your kind!"

"Who was he who sleeps now in your arms?" the Elf asked compassionately.

"It is no business of yours, you bastard, but he was my brother. His name was Tooraj."

"Then I grieve for him," said the Elf. "What is the name of the brother of the dead man that I may mourn for him, too?"

"Daungha!" the man said defiantly. "And, Elf, save your tears for yourself! I do not need your grief!"

"I grieve for all those who walk in darkness," the Elf murmured and walked away.

"Supercilious, arrogant ass!" Daungha called out to him but the Elf gave no reply and continued on his course. "Go back and haunt your trees! May they all rot and you and your kind with them!"

Going to their broken catapults, wains and ruined engines of war, the Easterlings and Southrons used axes to rend the frames into smaller pieces. Chanting songs of lament in their own tongues, they heaped the wood into pyres and set them alight with their torches. Sergeant Daungha watched as his brother's body was consumed in the flames and wailed a chant of farewell.

Sergeant Daungha looked down at his brother's amulets which he held in his hand. "Farewell, Tooraj, little brother. We shall meet again on the banks of the Great River, where the shade of the willows' soft tresses will shelter us and give us succor. There we will drink the cup of sorrow and rejoicing and curse all the Gods together!"

* * *

NOTES

SPELL OF BINDING  
Translated by Angmar  
Shadowlandian (LOS) Black Speech Dialect unless stated otherwise

Snaga bûrzum-ob, yonk nar ûsum-lab ghashnat / Thrall of darkness, no more your will to command  
Ûs sigûrz shum nar drâgh-lab-ob, ziru-lat, / Think no longer of your designs, your desires,  
(drâgh = design; Horngoth. Zir = desire; Tolkien's Adûnaic, LOS plural)  
Mâduruz darûkûrz-lab-ob, olkûrz-lab sat-u agh nariinuz / Freed of your weakness, your body to dust and forgotten  
Pardahûn lab kulub praush-tab-ishi / Power you will have in its exchange  
(Pardahûn = power; MERP)  
Ufum-lab kulat radbûrz, fulaknar dorozg-lab-ishi / Your fear is gone, secure in your surrender  
(radbûrz = gone; Horngoth)  
Kulûk iistuz, kulûk nariistuz kul lab fiithat / All things known, all things unknown are yours to behold  
Ukhurk dûmp shara, shakrop krimpuz izish-u / Shun the doom of men, stay bound to me  
Unr-izg frûm-lab naakh-izub-izish! / I hold your soul in my hand!  
Tabz-izg lat, Tahmtan Khand-ob, nokh Maugoth, rad snaga, / I claim you, Tahmtan of Khand, once a general, now a slave,  
Rad ghashn-izg. Frûm-lab kul izub agh obâshub-lat ghashanu-izub / Now I command. Your will is mine and you will obey my commands  
(Obâsh = obey; unknown origin)  
Rad agh ûkil-ûr / Now and for eternity


	29. The Eyes of the Dark Lord

Chapter Written by Angmar

Evening had come on the fourteenth day of June, the day of Mordor's defeat at the Second Battle of Helm's Deep. At last the dark Figure looked away from the palantír and then pulled the covering over its face. He rose from the chair where He had spent so many hours that day and walked to the end of the chamber. There, a doorway leading to a hall opened before Him. He could be heard from afar, striding down the hallway, His footsteps echoing like thunder through the corridor. He came to one of the several openings to His Great Hall and that door, too, slid aside for Him.

Only a few members of His bodyguard were waiting for Him. There, in honored places along the side of the Hall, sitting in great chairs befitting their exalted state, were six large beings in robes of darkest ebony.

The rumor that had gone abroad from the Dark Lands, spoken in hushed whispers, said that these exalted ones were spirits, too, like Sauron, but far lesser spirits of dark intent too cruel and evil for men of good will even to consider. They were, it was said in the lore, seduced ages before Time began - like Sauron Himself - by Melkor the Great and Potent. The tales also told that when Melkor had fallen long ago in Angband amidst the ruin of the Thangorodrim and had been dragged forth from His lair by the Valar, that these Spirits - or as some called them, "demons" - had taken refuge and burrowed deep in the deepest of recesses somewhere beneath the heart of Dor Daedeloth.

The only thing about them that mattered to Sauron was that they were loyal to Him, admirably loyal in fact, all willing to lay down their physical forms in His service. Tales whispered among gentle folks, long after the children lay slumbering in their beds, spoke of vampires and werewolves and beings who could shift their shapes at will and take various forms, each one more dreadful than the last. It was impossible, though, to determine the veracity of these rumors, for who among the mortals that walk upon the face of the earth would dare go there to see the truth of the matter for himself?

When Sauron strode forth into their presence that evening, they hailed Him as Lord, rising to their feet and bowing respectfully. He scanned their visages for a few moments, His face immutable, impossible to be read.

Then He looked about Him at the room, which lay dark with shimmering highlights in walls of obsidian, twinkling stones of black adamant. Fiery rubies, emeralds throbbing with souls of their own, and a myriad of faceted gems sparkled in many colors, the light of the torches casting their reflections upon the dark walls. There were also large basins kindled with great flames, some dark magick in origin, while others were natural, brought forth upon blazing coal, fruit of the deep earth.

Here and there amongst the bright diamonds, both of white fire and black, lay the mystic stone, the opal, the cloudy stone of magic and dream, ever changing, ever merging and separating, coming together, readable to those gifted in the arcane arts. There were milky stones with pastel speckles, greens mixed with cloudy blues, emeralds shading to deep purple, aquamarine, turquoise and yellow, reds with strange oranges mixed with yellows flowing, and vibrant rainbows set upon fields of black. Some stone, larger than others, appeared as gardens of colors, strange flowering flashes, constantly seething within the stone itself, running and flowing like pulsating glimmers of misty liquid.

All had been drawn forth from the depths of the earth by the once servant of Aulë. It was said that those with esoteric knowledge could look into the opal and see scenes, perhaps from the future, perhaps from the past or present, all melded together into one cohesive whole. Rumors say many things, and who can vouch for the validity of them?

Great steps led up to the massive throne, which was set upon a slab of blackest adamant half of a fathom in height. The throne itself was a marvel, wonderful to those who beheld it. It was of adamant, sable as the night, and no gems marred its soft luster. This was known to all at Lugbûrz, and among the many vassals and ambassadors who were occasionally housed there, as the Dark Lord's Great Throne, where He held court beneath the domed shadowy ceilings of the immense jeweled hall. Beside it in a semi-circle were Nine seats, far lower, but set upon adamant no less wondrous in beauty than was their Master's. The bodyguards sat at the sides of the hall upon great, though lesser, thrones.

When the Lieutenant was in Annatar's good graces - which was, all things considered, most of the time - he, too, sat upon the dais but at a lesser elevation in his own smaller chair, which had been cut into the stone.

Across the hall, opposite to Sauron's Throne, was an aperture cut in the wall, the Window of the Eye. Through it could be seen Orodruin, almost quiet in repose, with only a gentle rumbling to show that the Spirit still dwelt within.

Artano seemed languid, the slits of His Eyes barely hinting of the mood within. He mounted the stairs to His throne and then turned, His long robe of black and gold flowing elegantly about His mighty form as He spun around and sat down. His bodyguard waited patiently, knowing that their Liege would not speak idly, but always with words that held great import. They waited quietly, and then a slight flickering of His Eyes heralded His first words.

"It is over."

None of them responded. Not a whisper, not a shout, not a roar, not even a rasping sound or a faint peeping.

His next words were by thought.

"Leave Me."

Then ambling, some shuffling, some gliding, all with fangs hidden, claws sheathed and wings folded back across broad frames, some changing in form as their features slowly transcended, some turning into shapes human, handsome in face and form, and others more delicate, graceful, lovely, filled with charm and delight. They filed into a passage, into a corridor which would lead them to secret places where they could be free to take whatsoever form they most desired.

Shades unseen to mortal eyes glided resolutely, noiselessly, from the sight of their Master. Wolves of silver, white and black; strange cats with eyes of flame, feline in form but possessed with ancient spirits; and other creatures too foul to describe slunk out from dark corners and followed the procession of fell beings. Serpents, hissing and writhing, slithered sensuously from the vast chamber. Even spiders, some large, some small, skittered away, frightened.

Among the simple it was commonly said that these beings had disappeared at the end of the First Age, but others among them who felt the deep magic stirring in the earth, the air, the wind and the fire, said that they still had being and walked abroad in Middle-earth, though hidden in form. If one were perceptive, one could still catch a hint of the majesty concealed therein.

The main door, the public door to the Great Hall, drew open at a thought by its Master, signaling that the hall was open, and that those who would attend Him for the rest of the evening could approach. First there were trusted guards, both men and orcs, equally honored by being appointed to stand at readiness near the Throne. Upon entering the door, they bowed, first low from the waist and then walked forward, and again halted at a distance of about thirty feet from the Great Throne. Bowing, they waited until Sauron nodded, and then they took their appointed places along the walls.

Next to appear was the Lieutenant, flanked by two servants, whom he dismissed just outside the door. There they would wait, farther down the hall, until they were called upon again. The Lieutenant bowed, then walked ahead, halting ten feet from the Throne. Bowing, he hailed his Master, and was given leave to go to his place.

Then the doors closed silently, and the hall was barred. No sound, unless the Dark Lord willed it, would ever escape from that Great Hall. The Mouth waited until he heard the Voice of Sauron echoing in his mind, and the Mouth, honored as always, replied to Him in thought-speech.

"Then, Master of Highest Excellence, defeat is at hand?"

"Defeat is already here, My Lieutenant. It is over; the battle is lost. The Army is in full retreat, their tails between their legs, like beaten dogs. To make the mockery more bitter, the puppet of Mithrandir, the False King of Gondor, Heir to the Thief, begged an exchange of prisoners! He had the audacity, the effrontery, to think that he could lure Me into losing face and assumed that I would accept his offer of trading those Easterlings whom his men had captured for those slave wretches of the Rohirrim!"

"A grave offense, Deity of Flame," the Mouth simpered.

"Indeed!"

"Let the weaklings rot in their chains! Let them die in slavery for their failures!" the Lieutenant expressed his eagerness.

"The Rohirrim, perhaps, who are men of the earth and not men of mystic leanings, would do the will of Melkor instinctively if left to their own devices. Yet ever do they lean to the counsels of the Men of the West. Whilst you, My Lieutenant, would consider it most expeditious to torture and enslave all - and indeed it is a way to teach discipline - those men under the advice of those of Westernesee will not do that which is most prudent. While they of the heart of Atalantë sojourn here, they will lead men away from their true instincts to follow after Melkor.

"The Easterling dogs will not be tortured, whilst in the keeping of the Gondorians and Rohirrim, but instead will be put to labor doing that which their captors wish to have done. Then, when years have passed, the Rohirrim might do one of several things: escort them to the border, or if they feel perhaps that the men of the East and South have adapted to their ways, offer them land, perhaps near that of the Dunlendings, but away from themselves. This is not altogether disadvantageous to us, My Lieutenant, for who knows what useful tools the Easterlings and Southrons can provide if they gain the confidence of their masters?"

"That could prove most judicious, Lord. But what of the slave women? Since the victory has been robbed from us by incompetence and perhaps even downright sedition, there will be few of them in the future to reward Your faithful in Nurn. The market for slaves in Nurn will be a seller's one, where each of the wenches and their simpering children will be valued much too highly. Except for the sales of those women Your illustrious uruks capture in future forays, the market will soon be dead. I know You have many designs for what few of them there will be."

Indeed, Sauron had plans for some of the captured women. The fairest would be bought at high prices by those who wished to present them as unblemished offerings to Melkor and Himself. It was only fair, equitable and just that those lords who were willing to offer the highest prices for the love gifts were those who were the most loyal and faithful to their Master. Those who were stoutest and bravest would have other uses, for those who showed greatest valor and an unflinching spirit would be given to his best uruks, there to breed upon them a new race which He was planning.

Once again, the light-fearing orcs had proved their unworthiness in battle. Sauron had concluded, even before this war was begun, that the day of that lesser breed was rapidly drawing to its close and that they were fit for little more than to provide food for the more powerful of their race.

There was another reason for this breeding program. The blood of the elves was fading from Middle-earth, and as it faded, it had been found that some of the orcs themselves were weakening. Such as this would fall far too quickly in battle, and so the race of the Orc must be replenished with the bloodlines of Men.

Now the Master sought a new breed, vastly superior to any that had gone before, but to do that, He had to use the women of Gondor, Rohan and other countries. The women of Rohan had proved far more valuable in His breeding program than had the Gondorian women, for the Rohirric females were far more fertile and mated with amazing readiness. The Gondorians were a fading people, and their numbers had steadily decreased. Sauron looked forward to that day when the Númenórean bloodline would be lost to time by their own sterility.

There was a calculated peril in this, though, for with the addition of mannish blood and the ensuing ability to withstand the light, there would come more cunning and deceit, and a streak of rebellion. With the increasing strength of the mannish blood would come more intelligence and with intelligence came the ability to plot. With too much of mannish blood, the orcs themselves might be more likely to succumb to the mannish qualities, and someday rise against the very One who had improved their stock. Sauron would watch for that quality carefully and have that type marked for destruction.

Ever was the Mind of the Master a calculating one, deep in its ways, far-sighted in the scope of its plans. He could not concentrate now upon His losses, for there was always the future for which He must plan. Barring any more interference from His meddlesome kindred, the Valar and the Maiar, perhaps someday He would be successful and mold Arda into the ordered, structured world that He had long envisioned. He saw His Mind as a continuation of the Mind of Melkor. Sauron felt in His heart that He was pleasing to His King, Who languished somewhere beyond in the darkness of the Void. That thought had consoled Him through many of His most desolate hours.

Sauron knew that the Mouth would be eager to learn any glimmering of the plans of His new breeding program, hoping, no doubt, to satisfy his base desires and watch - from a safe distance, of course - the mating rituals and the actual mating itself. Sauron knew the thoughts of His servant, for they mirrored His own. He enjoyed tormenting the Mouth by denying this weak, lesser creature a sight that would excite him so much, for He alone would watch that spectacle. Perhaps, though, He might intimate some of the more titillating of the couplings just to remind the Lieutenant that he was not worthy to observe.

Only once had Sauron allowed the Mouth to study the mating from the first bellowing bleats of the male to the last whimpering cries of the golden-haired wench from whom the uruk had just wrenched the flower of maidenhood. Moaning with excitement and deviant desire, the Lieutenant had gripped the sides of his chair as he looked with gawking eyes at the scene unfolding before him. Then his intense gaze was broken when his Master had called the guards to pull the male from the female who lay trembling, her mangled thighs smeared with her own blood. The Mouth, almost beside himself with his own lusts, slumped limply in his chair, shaking and drenched in sweat.

How had he envied the orc at that moment and feared that his Master would deny the Lieutenant a night of pleasure with one of his mistresses, favoring instead to lecture him on the strengthening values of abstinence and self-control. Sauron had glared at him with disdain, concluding, as always, that mortals were utterly disgusting and loathsome creatures. The Dark Lord sometimes wondered why He ever bothered with Man, for though the race was like-minded with Melkor, they could be so petty and base at times.

"Perverted little bastard," Sauron thought in the deep recesses of His mind, far beyond that which was open to the Mouth in thought-speech.

The Mouth waited patiently for his Lord to direct His thoughts back to His servant, and the Mouth let his mind rest in expectant repose, not suspecting the contempt His Master held for him. As he pondered the glories of his Lord, he considered how honored he was to be in the counsel of the Great Sub-creator.

The Great Eye directed His thoughts back to His servant. "You know My conclusions, Lieutenant, that My kindred used their influence, though it was cloaked in the signs of nature and coincidence, against Me."

The Mouth sensed that the Dark Lord was hurt, angry, and he understood completely the feelings of rejection that his Lord harbored. He felt sympathetic, almost protective, as he always did at these times. His heart swelled with righteous anger, at the slights and injuries that his Master had suffered at the hands of His own kindred.

"They have aggrieved Me, Lieutenant, and treated Me unjustly, just as they treated My Lord, Melkor the Blessed and High. What else could I expect?" He sighed, His voice drenched in humility. "The Servant is not higher than His Master."

Sauron's feelings were heartfelt. Indeed, He believed sincerely with all of His Being that both He and Melkor had been wronged mightily by the One and by His Servants, the Valar. Possibly those of the Elves, aged and wise, would say that the Dark Lord was a master of deceit and forever was proving His mastery by deceiving even Himself. But who could ever understand, save Another who had suffered in like manner?

For ever would the Elves judge Him harshly, but many of the men, who were more like unto Melkor than they were to Ilúvatar, might, too, deem Him wronged. They would not admit it, though, save in the darkest places of their hearts.

"True, my Lord," pitied the Mouth, "both You and Melkor the Great and Wondrous, the Wise, the Mighty in Spirit and Might, have been treated most harshly and unjustly by the Advocates of the False God, Your kindred."

"Perhaps someday they will learn the error of their ways, but now is not the time. My kin see it, no doubt whilst congratulating one another, as another victory over Me. They know how unjustly they have dealt with the Great One and with Me. Kinslayers, all of them, with the corrupted hearts of Elves! They would slay Me if they could!"

"Shunned, rejected, hated, reviled and despised. You do not deserve this, O Divinity Sacred and Wise!" The Mouth was close to tears.

"I must do the best that I can after the results of their underhanded dealings. In any event, Lieutenant, Orthnac is still denied to you. I know the loss of this hope will be a sore one."

"Doubtless, Lord," the Lieutenant said, his simpering mood turning vituperative, "there is naught apparently that we can do to rectify the injustices that they have done to You, for they have set themselves in their cherished places of leisure where they cannot be assailed. However, those here responsible for their unwitting duplicity in this unbelievable disaster should be summarily punished. Justice must be upheld."

The only comfort the Mouth could take from the debacle of Helm's Deep was the anticipation of the punishment that the Lord of the Nine would receive at the hands of his Master. Yet that would indeed be poor recompense for all his dashed hopes and dreams, the sure knowledge that he had once held that he would someday be Master of Orthnac.

Perhaps he would seek comfort with his mistress that night, if his Master did not object. Then he would rid himself of all responsibilities, all obligations. Shedding all the trappings of his high position, he would humble himself. Groveling before her upon the floor, he would beg her to humiliate him. Then after standing to his feet, he would allow her to strip him, bind him to the bedpost, and flail the flesh from his back. Tied between the posts, he would writhe in delight with each burning bite of the flail. He felt that it was beneficial to let go sometimes and revel in his own vileness. It would be both comforting and a way of purging himself from the guilt he was beginning to feel. He looked forward to the lashing... and what would come after.


	30. Úmarth en Aran Morgul

Chapter Written by Angmar

The Living Incarnation of the Mind of Sauron knew that the prime Motivator of his conscious thought was seething with all the fury of the flaming, rippling heat of Mount Orodruin. The Lieutenant's mortal essence trembled in fear at the closeness of such suppressed wrath. All his future, his plans, his hopes, his very life, were all intricately woven and connected with the fate of the Spirit of Fire. The sobering implications of failure were too monstrous to consider for any length of time. Though there had been monumental disappointments, his Master would not ultimately fail and would at last be triumphant over those opponents whose minds ever turned backward when He wished to go forward to new and better things.

"He is the embodiment of the power of creation," the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr thought. "He is the channeled Essence of the energy of Arda, the might of His spirit burning as a pure and holy Flame. He is the All!" The Mouth was awe-stricken with rapture and wonder, and his body trembled with the intensity of his ecstasy. "Even though He would slay me, yet would I adore Him!"

Annatar sat upon His throne of black adamant and lamented, His mind troubled in deep sadness. "This day has been a grievous one. I have spent long hours in torment. Now I am forced to deal with those who have failed Me most. My Heart aches in sorrow for what I must do."

"Can any mortal know the full meaning, the unbearable convulsions of the soul of godhood, of a Being Who can never die, but plunge only deeper into a slough of despair!" The Mouth felt his soul crushed at the great mourning of his Master. "What anguish He must feel! How He must be suffering! If only I could bear it for Him," the Lieutenant thought pityingly, and felt an all-encompassing devotion for his Lord. How lofty was his Master, the Mouth mused, to hide His pain beneath a calm exterior. His heart swelled in joy and pride as he admired his Lord's majesty and strength.

"O Great Divinity, they must pay for what they have done to You!" the Mouth cried out. "They cannot know the depths of suffering to which Your essence has plunged! No one can ever begin to feel even a tiny fraction of such divine affliction!"

"They will pay. They must pay," the Dark Lord moaned and bowed His head in sorrow. "Though it grieves Me unbearably to do this, it is the only thing I can do."

"Enemies surround You, encompass and encircle You upon every side. How it must grieve You even to consider sedition among those who are the closest," the Mouth sympathized. "Always those most trusted prove the most false-hearted." The Lieutenant was close to tears as he sensed the great Mind in Its agony.

Sauron knew that the Lieutenant actually relished what would befall all those who had offended the Dark Lord, and He was pleased with His servant. Though the Mouth was only an imitation of Himself, the sniveling wretch was a convenient echo-chamber of his Master's thought.

The Mouth was not without blemish and flaw, though. His depraved cravings of the flesh both disgusted and amused his Master. Powers were above such perversities, but Sauron understood well the weaknesses of man, and how to utilize them to the fullest. The Mouth was of inestimable value as His Spokesman,and for this, Sauron would allow him a great span of life for his fidelity.

"How it must hurt You, grieve You beyond endurance, O Great One, but they have given You no other alternatives," the Lieutenant said sadly. "You must do what You must. I know how it will bring You the greatest of all pain to punish Your Nine sons. However, there is no alternative, for there is no other conclusion. They have failed You in the past and they continue to do so in the present! There was no enthusiasm amongst any of them when You set them upon the quest for the Ring! Though they might plead incompetency, there was no way that they could not have obtained the Ring had it been their will!"

Though the Mouth was verging on the eloquence of a barrister in arguing for the guilt of a felon, the Dark Lord needed no persuasion. The guilt of the Nine was rampant.

"I hesitate to make this allegation, but they have proved traitors in all their ways! Though in Your leniency, You will recoil from administering the most extreme of punishments, for You are the Shining Light of All Arda! You alone point the way!" the Lieutenant simpered. "The great must do what they must!"

The Spokesman of Sauron hesitated before he posited his question, but he was almost salivating in his lust for vindication. "What will You do to them?" the Mouth asked eagerly, trying to restrain an outward expression of his glee.

"Do not be so eager, Lieutenant, to know of My will. I will deal with them, both with compassion and with justice." Sauron's words were a rebuke, harsh though gentle in speech.

The Mouth took his chastisement philosophically, stoically. "Yes, my Lord, only You can deal with them righteously," he repeated in awe-stricken rote.

Gorthaur looked up, his face a contorted mask of sorrow. "First, those army officers of the high rank, the worst offenders, will be brought before Me. With them shall come each member of their households, from their wives and their children to the lowest of their servants. Each one of them will be tortured slowly before My worthless generals and then slain in front of their eyes. Then the generals' own eyes will be burnt out with hot irons, and they will be tortured in the most excruciating of ways.

"When they can scream no longer and their tongues cleave to the roofs of their mouths in thirst and their lips crack and split asunder, then their tongues shall be ripped away, bathing their mouths in the balm of their own blood. At last they will be executed and their bodies hacked to pieces in My presence. Then, with My own Hands, I will feed their flesh to the latest hatchlings of My fell beasts. This is the price of failure."

"Righteous, my Lord! O Righteous Deity!" Overcome with emotion, the Lieutenant fell to his knees in front of his chair and groveled, kissing the floor.

"Let the others learn from this example of their superiors!" Sauron boomed.

"And what of the others, Lord?" the Mouth panted from his kneeling position on the floor.

"Those of lesser rank shall merely be tortured in prolonged and delightful ways and at last be executed."

"O how exalted in all Thy ways art Thou, Lord of Middle-earth!"

"Rise to your feet, Lieutenant and return to your seat. There is more."

As he stood, the Mouth smoothed his dark robes of state and rearranged the golden circlet upon his head. He adjusted the large medallion which hung from a golden chain about his neck and touched it with a sense of awe, for it was a gift from his Master. He smiled weakly and almost swooned, overcome with a religious fervor.

His lower lip had been cut when he had fallen to the floor, and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. He slowly licked the blood from his perfect mouth with its gleaming set of pearly teeth. He enjoyed the sweet taste of blood, whether it be his own or that of others. Reaching into into his left sleeve, he pulled out a plain black handkerchief and wiped away the blood from his beardless face and then sat down.

The Lieutenant was a stately man in looks and bearing, and the women found him quite handsome, even irresistible, with his finely chiseled features, raven black hair and flashing grey eyes. But he was exceedingly vain and proud of his fair appearance. Though he was cruel and unforgiving, stern at times, he was nothing before his Master.

As he sat down, the Lieutenant began to breathe harder, his heart racing and his hands beginning to tremble. "How unique and limitless are the tortures of my Master," the Mouth thought, "protracted, slow, and luxuriously wrought. Torture most cunning and cruel as only the Master of Torment could devise." He was pleased that he had the honor and privilege to be tutored under such greatness.

"Aye, my Lieutenant, even you would be pleased with what I have planned."

The Mouth's lip had begun to bleed again, and he licked off the fresh flow from his lips. Suddenly, he felt exhilarated at the metallic taste of his own blood.

"For your edification and instruction, Lieutenant, I shall reveal to you some of the details of what I have planned. First the Morgul Lord will receive the Chastisement of Guilt, Shame and Pain, and only he could tell you of its benefits upon the soul..."

The Mouth's face lit up. He would enjoy Angmar's torment greatly, and he hoped, prayed, that he would be allowed to watch and relish every shrieking wail of pain and humiliation. Disappointment had already began to seep into his heart, though, for he knew that Sauron reserved that dark pleasure for Himself alone.

"...After he has learned from that, he will be with Me for a long time. The others will be appropriately rebuked and disciplined and abide with Me for a while."

"Great will be his punishment and his instruction," the Mouth cackled joyfully.

"My Lieutenant, that is only the beginning!" Sauron threw back His head and laughed, and the walls shook and the glittering gems danced in the light of the fires and torches.

The Mouth echoed His mirth, as he always did, a mortal reflection, an imitation, a parody of the Divine.

"To satisfy My righteous anger, I will take away his Ring," Sauron explained to the Mouth. "The only reason I allowed him to have it once again was to possess the power of the Ring in prosecuting My war to its full extent. Since he has dishonored his Ring, he is no longer worthy to wear it. Denied his Ring, he will consider it a great punishment, for though he hates his Ring, he loves it, too. How he will pine for it, like a lover who loses his beloved!"

The Dark Lord thought of His Own anguish during the long years when His Ring was lost. A slow smile uncoiled over His face as He thought of the Witch-king's agony at being inflicted with the same kind of pain that He had been forced to bear. The wound would sting so much the more bitterly since the Nazgûl King had been given the privilege of holding his Ring only a short time ago!

"O Splendid and Divine Master - and then? What other delights of shame and agony have You planned? I pray that You tell this worthless worm more!" Almost overcome with joy in considering the delicious punishments which his Master would inflict upon his old nemesis, the Mouth felt a tingling in his lower regions. With a great feat of will, he managed to stifle the urge to release his bladder. He gripped the arms of his chair in anticipation of Sauron's next words, almost breaking one of his carefully manicured fingernails in the process.

"More!" Sauron's mood turned petulant and His fiery eyes raked over His groveling sycophant. "More!" He thundered, the terrible explosion of his voice sending the Mouth once again to the floor in a trembling heap. "How dare an inconsequential mortal have the audacity to hurry Me! With only a thought, I could send you hurtling across the room and through the Window of the Eye, to fall to your death on the rocks below! Men do not press a god for 'More!' Wretch, you forget that I helped create this world!"

"O Great Deity of Deities, Infinity of Infinities - O Great Eye That Sees All - have mercy upon this lowly slug who wallows in his own filth and revels in it! I am not fit to lick the sole of your boots! Whip me, Master! I beg You! Drive my folly far from me! Let me feel the scourging fail of the rod of punishment across my trembling form! Anything - only allow Your pathetic servant - who lives for the sublime joy of serving You - to remain in Your divine presence!"

The Mouth's humble petition seemed to mollify the Dark Lord, for the raging inferno of His eyes dulled to mere embers as His powerful muscles relaxed and He leaned back upon His throne. "You toad, you do not deserve to feel My lash upon your worthless body! You are a canker and a leech which feeds upon My goodwill! Still, in My great benevolence and compassion, I will graciously extend My forgiveness to you, and will deign to tell you the full scope of My designs. Take your seat once again." Holding His hands extended before Him, He pressed His fingers together and looked across them down at the cowering mortal before Him.

"While the Witch-king serves his term of imprisonment, I will restore his memory fully to him. This doom I will inflict upon not only him, but the rest of the Nine. They will recall, with dreadful pain and clarity, the lives which they once led. They will remember the rays of the sun, the color and scent of flowers, the green blades of grass, the singing of birds, the sound of water, and the stirring of gentle breezes - each particular of every day that was significant to them. The three of Númenor will remember a land which was and a glorious past to which they can never return.

"They will be plagued with visions, hallucinations and phantasmagoria. They will see the past as though it were happening all over again, and they will be convinced that they have returned in time to their darkest hours. All they see and feel will be real to them. A thousand agonies they will know. They will relive every painful moment of their lives - every disappointment, every betrayal, every lie, every hurt, every death, every grief, every strife - with a fresh and raw newness. They will feel the sorrow of watching all those close to them - their fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, kinsmen, kinswomen, lovers, wives, children, and friends - die over and over again, whether by succumbing to the slow, unyielding blight of old age or by war and blood.

"Always will the Nine be left behind, never to join those most dear to them in death, that surcease of all sorrows. In My kindness, I have withheld these memories from them, for they would haunt them, obsess them, until they consumed all their thoughts. Some men go mad when but one person dear to them perishes. The Nazgûl have seen many deaths, and know much pain and sorrow. They will experience the darkest days of their lives as though they were happening that very moment! Soon all of them will be upon their knees before Me, begging the Lord of Mercy to assuage their agonies beneath the soothing cloud of forgetfulness!"

The Dark Lord rose to His feet, His form that of a man, though taller than any. He did not attempt to deceive Himself that His features were anything other than what they were - a blackened visage terrible to behold, eyes gleaming with a shadowy fire of pure spite and malice. He walked to the window facing the fiery mountain and turned His back to the Lieutenant as He looked out.

The Lieutenant was almost beside himself in joy, for he understood now how truly wroth Sauron was with Angmar. He could not contain himself any longer and began to rise to his feet. "I hate the Nine, especially the Witch-king!" the Mouth thought wildly. "He would be my undoing and take all that I have been promised! He deserves this grinding punishment, administered slowly, bit by bit, drop by drop like the Torment of the Dripping Water!"

The Lieutenant was intensely jealous of the position that Angmar held in the Eyes of the Master. Though there had never been any outward indication of this, the Lieutenant was convinced that the Morgul Lord had been plotting against him for years. The Mouth's heightened arcane senses had often felt an aura of darkness creeping over him, looking for a weakness which could be used to strip him of his power. He was certain that the Nine often went up in their tower, chanting their dark imprecations and casting evil spells upon him. Sometimes in dreams, all Nine would hover in a circle about his bed, intoning spells in a language which even he could not understand. Clad in hooded robes of darkest night, eight of them would swing censors around his supine form while the Witch-king held aloft a gleaming dagger. The knife, which the King held in both hands, was poised over his heart, and then down it would plunge. The Mouth always awoke from these nightmares screaming, his sweat drenching the bed sheets.

Now, at last, his rival, the Morgul Lord, would get his comeuppance!

"O Spirit of Fire, O Beacon of Light, the Nine have earned Your wrath!" the Lieutenant cried in rapture. "Let them receive Your just punishment!"

"Restrain your jubilation, My Lieutenant. Never consider yourself too high to be punished. Remember the cost of failure." There was warning in those words spoken calmly, benevolently. Though His wrath was great against the Nine, still they were the favorites among all his servants. Were they not the creations of His own will, and as such worthy of favor, even a sort of twisted, controlling affection?

"Yes, O Great One," the Mouth simpered, his face blanching as he slumped back into his chair.

As the Dark Lord strode forward, the Mouth was instantly on the floor, groveling, prostrating himself before Him. "Utterly despicable," Sauron thought as He stepped over the Lieutenant with not a glance down at the fawning, prone figure. The door slid closed behind Him and the Lieutenant was left alone, still groveling on the floor.

After this disappointing day, Gorthaur determined that He must find some form of amusement that would take His great Mind off the troubles of the world. Perhaps, under pretext of dire urgency, He would call the Mouth to attend Him in His hall long before Arien cast her weakened beams into the Dark Lands. The Flame smiled, mildly amused at the concept. Through His almost omniscient power of intuition, He could ascertain when the Lieutenant and his mistress would be locked in a frenzied union of the flesh. Only moments before the Mouth was about to release his seed, Sauron would cast a spell of weakness upon him that would instantly render him flaccid. Then the Dark Lord would summon His Lieutenant at that most inopportune time. Frustrated, his loins aching, the Mouth would be forced to leave his chambers and meet with his Master.

The embarrassed Lieutenant, words of entreating apology upon his lips, would rush into the hall, reeking of the warm scent of musk and love and his mistress' flowery perfume. Sauron would laugh secretly at his abashed plight and carnal weaknesses, while rebuking him with stern words for his woeful lack of punctuality. To add to the Mouth's discomfiture, the "matter of grave importance" would prove to be some trifling inconsequence of little interest to anyone, such as the vast plumbing network which lay beneath the Barad-dûr. Great Gods could afford to be petty, and even impish at times, if they so desired.

Gorthaur the Cruel was in need of comfort Himself that evening. While nothing save the Ring could completely ease His pain, there were a few who could help Him forget, at least for a while, while joining with Him in the pleasures of the corporeal world.

* * *

NOTES

"Úmarth en Aran Morgul" - Doom of the Morgul King, Sindarin


	31. Mistress of the Eastern Wind

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The chamber lay clutched in ebony darkness as the Dark Lord listlessly reclined upon the couch. His blackened form was unclad, save for a light sable covering which had been thrown carelessly over His loins. A door slid open soundlessly and a shadowy shape eased into the room, fading into the darkness as the door closed behind.

Like a gentle breeze upon a balmy summer night, the graceful figure glided to Him upon silent feet, slightly stirring the still ethers of the darkened chamber. She sank to her knees before His couch and pressed her soft crimson lips upon those of black. Yet there was no response, no whisper of greeting, no soft utterance of pleasure, though her lips were sweet and tasted of honeyed balm. She spread her wings over Him, the black flesh draping over the reclining figure like a blanket of soft, supple leather.

Still He said naught. She sensed His melancholy, the great brooding sorrow. It swelled up from His heart, enveloping her in a well of sadness deep and eternal, and her spirits sank into abysmal despair. The features of her wan face were soft and sad as she looked down upon the grieving figure of the Dark Lord, and her eyes were filled with deep concern. A slender hand reached up and long, tapered fingers gently touched His cheek. Claws of iron which had oft been stained red with the blood of the hapless glided carefully across His dusky face, in fear of marring the skin of the God before her. Like double curtains of somber night, His eyelids veiled faintly glowing embers of fire. The wavering fingers of the woman of secret shadow discovered a tear at the corner of her Master's eye.

"Artano," she whispered. "You weep!" Great compassion swelled up inside her chest, and she wished she could take away all His pain, for One so righteous and just as He did not deserve the anguish which now smote the very core of His being. Indeed, the ages had been long and wearying, and though there were triumphs, the innumerable years were filled with many disappointments.

She breathed in deeply and then exhaled, her breath coming out as a ragged sigh. Ever did the Valar seek to destroy the designs of the Wise, first those of Melkor, and then those of Sauron, seeking to replace them with monstrosities of their own creation. Arda was born in the midst of this strife, and the infernal meddling of the Valar was the cause of all trouble and woe. The others had resented the creativity and ingenuity of Melkor, for it far surpassed their own, and they were exceedingly jealous of Him. The mountains that Melkor created - great structures of primal beauty - the Valar threw down, and when He sought to aid them in their own creations, they reviled Him, saying that He devastated their handiwork rather than improving it.

Ever did the Valar scheme and plot for the downfall of those possessing true wisdom, first in the making of the world, and even now in the Age of Men. They were to blame for this latest defeat!

"How my heart cries out for Your suffering and sorrow!" she whimpered, embracing her Lord's pain as her own. "The Old Enemies are at work here; I feel their hatred and jealousy as a sharp and bitter knife." She thought of the leering faces of the Hated Ones, those who walked twistedpaths bathed in light and adorned themselves in robes of self-righteous piety. How they must take especial delight in this day of woe! "Always will those who are righteous suffer and be persecuted; such has it always been even ere Time began," she sighed as she stroked His cheek, her voice filled with sadness.

Another tear slid down His face, a trickle of liquid light, radiant and sparkling against an ebony cheek. Her pointed tongue darted out and touched the golden droplet, tasting of the essence of His suffering. Once He had been handsome with alabaster skin over a face slightly elvish in design, but now His darkened visage was no more than a base mimicking of former glory.

"You are beautiful, my Lord," she purred softly as she licked His tears away, her tongue gently lapping at the richness of His pain. "Your face is a delight to my eyes, and my heart beats just as fast for You as it did when I was Your messenger. Though we dwell in the realm of Time and watch as the years go by, though we may take different forms or have forms robbed from us, You shall always be fair to me and I shall always worship You, my Beloved," she murmured, smiling affectionately, her eyes aglow with love.

Impassive, He did not seem to notice when her lithesome form slid onto His couch and gracefully draped over His body, her wings spreading out around them like a covering. Gently she cradled His head in her hands as she kissed His lips, His cheeks, His forehead, the lids of His closed eyes. Then once again her lips went to His mouth, and she kissed Him long and tenderly.

Weeping silently, He said not a word and lay as one dead.

"My Beautiful One! You are the love of my heart! Please do not weep!" she pled desperately as she kissed away the newly fallen tears.

"There is naught else that I can do, for none have understanding of My plight. The only One Who could has been taken, cruelly wrested away! There is only trifling comfort now for Me. I cannot bear this frustration, this merciless denial!" He clenched His great hands into fists. "I feel driven now to destroy all Arda for if My plans cannot come to fruition, what is there left to Me?"

He sounded fey, savage and intractable as He clenched and unclenched His fists viciously. "I would wrench all men, plants and animals from this earth and cast them into the maelstrom of My fury! I would drag the stars from the heavens and beat them into dust with My bloodied hands! All have refused to acknowledge My great love for Middle-earth, and perhaps now I shall destroy everything! And then at last, all Valinor would lie beneath My feet, and I would crush My kin under My boots!"

Stricken with fear, the woman of shadow and mist trembled against the Dark Lord's body, and felt deep dread within her being that Artano would go mad, as had Melkor when His enemies had constantly impeded His grand designs. There, near the end, the Blessed Melkor's moods had shifted wildly, and He had rambled and ranted, frothing at the mouth in furious bursts of temper, driven to the limits of His endurance by the injustices of His kin.

Then Artano's great arms reached up and grasped her, nearly suffocating her. He clung to her desperately, weeping, begging for comfort and sympathy in His fit of rage and grief. "Thuringwethil," His soul spoke in anguish. "My nymphlet, how I have suffered today; only you would know!"

"I heard Your calls, my Lord, Your cries of agony and I wept long until I could weep no more," she whispered in agonized compassion, her head resting upon His broad chest, her slender body trapped in the warm prison of His arms. "My tears were without number and I thought to save them in a silver phial before they ceased. I will give them to You, for they are a gift of my eternal love and devotion. Though my power be feeble, take the tears which I have shed and use them for Your solace. If they should add even infinitesimally to Your great power, Your handmaiden would be pleased."

Another tear crept from under a closed eyelid and she gasped for breath. Her wings twitched and spasmed involuntarily, for her form was slowly being crushed. She was caught between the strength of His sinewy arms and the rock of His mighty chest, and when He squeezed her, it was like the massive plates of the earth when they thrust against one another in grinding fury. He held her life in His hands and could destroy her at any moment, driving her spirit from the fleshly form which housed it and sending her naked into the dark. But if she was to be slain in the arms of the One whom she loved as He sought comfort in her, she would perish in bliss, overcome with happiness and joy as she gasped her last breath.

"My Lord, a boon, a favor, I pray!" she panted, her eyes watering from the intense pressure put upon her weakening body. "Let me have but one of Your tears, and I will keep it forever!"

"'Tis a great boon you ask of Me and not many would dare! I grant it, but can you sustain such power!"

"Great is the might in but a single drop of Your tears, but I shall take it and more," she whispered gratefully, her voice strained.

"But a single tear is all that I will yield!" He finally loosened His tight grasp upon her and she lay there, panting in relief. Then she kissed Him, her tongue darting out and tickling His cheek.

"Such a great pity to waste them soddening the covers," she murmured as she lowered her head to His neck, nuzzling it with her gentle touches, the tears from her dark eyes falling like a silken rain. "My Lord, but a few drops more. Grant this wish to me, Your handmaiden. I beg You!"

An arrogant look spread over His face and He smiled. "For much to be granted, much must be given in return. Can you give what I demand?"

"Anything that You wish, I will give it if it lies within my power. You already own my heart, my body and my soul." Raising her head slightly, she bestowed upon His neck a series of kisses, and then licked over His smooth flesh slowly and tantalizingly, a promise of delights to come.

Supporting herself upon her hands, she raised herself up and smiled down at Him. Then, reaching into the plunging neckline of her sheer silken gown, she took a crystal phial from betwixt her full, pale breasts. Pulling the stopper from the neck of the vessel, she put the opening to His cheek as the golden teardrops trickled into it like dew falling from the leaves of Laurelin. The phial soon glowed and sparkled with a golden gleam, and the tiny beacon illuminated the room with a pure and holy light. When the vessel was half-full, the flow then ceased and Thuringwethil returned the stopper to the crystal bottle, sequestering it within the deep valley of her snowy breasts.

"Sweet, sensuous vampire," Sauron sighed plaintively. "My love of Arda shall be My undoing! Always have I loved that above all things, and have given up much for her!" His eyes flicked open. "Surely you do not think that I mourn only for My own defeat!"

"Nay, Lord, Your Mind is high and noble, and far above the realm of the temporal," she replied softly as she lowered herself back down upon her Master's chest. "You are the rightful ruler of Middle-earth and all of Arda in the stead of our Master, and You think of the whole spectrum of Time and Being rather than mere fragments that are of no significance in the span of things. The full range of Your sublime thought is deep in its depth and vast in its width, O Lord, and the full extent of Your Mind is unfathomable to me, one of the lowest of Your kindred!" Her breathless words were passionate, filled with pride and adoration, and she rejoiced that she had rebelled against her first master, Manwë Súlimo, and followed in the footsteps of Melkor many long ages before.

"My sister, My treasured bat-fell. I have great need of your comfort."

"My Brother, I offer You my body for Your pleasure," she purred seductively, her heart pounding. "In each other, let us forget the great sorrows that plague this age, at least for a time."

"Wanton," He laughed. "You have always been My desire... My love... My lust."

She laughed merrily and put her finger upon His blackened lips. "Do not try to deceive Your Thuringwethil. I know Your desires are not for me only, and that You do, on occasion, enjoy the favors of those spirits of flame, like unto You, but lesser. But I shall serve You better in bed than any of them!" she boasted saucily, gusts of passion sweeping about her heart. "Though they are blazing, furious in their natures as the spirits of fire are, I am of the spirit of the wind, mists and vapors and I will soothe Your sorrows." She lighted a playful kiss upon the Dark Lord's lips, her own insatiable fires enveloping her warm body like smokes and steams.

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound, and she was pleased. She was even more pleased when the ebony chamber began to glow slightly, pulsing with a golden light that rippled and echoed from the walls and turned them into shimmering patterns of beauty. Her lips lit up in a radiant smile as she looked about the chamber, her sharp, saliva-drenched fangs gleaming like pearls in the flickering light.

There she beheld, unfolding before her eyes, scenes painting themselves upon the faceted, glowing walls, woven amid the tapestries of inlaid jewels. There were tales that were infinitely varied, changing in hue and in texture, never the same, always changing, always varying to suit the mood of the Master. Lying across her Lord's chest, Thuringwethil trembled in astonishment with the impact of rediscovered memories as the portraits of the past flickered upon the walls.

There were great vistas of panoramic beauty that showed celestial beings, taking shape as though from a golden mist. As the images of them appeared upon the walls of the chambers, a beautiful harmonic singing filled the room and an enrapturing scent wafted upon the air. The voices were exquisitely lovely, but the melodies that they sang were weak in thought and poorly conceived. The repetitious monotony of their song lulled on languorously with a dreamy quality of little substance.

Then somewhere in the background, there was a changing melody and a strident, brave Voice dared to sing out amidst the limpid, bland harmony of the others. This new melody was bold, resourceful, energetic, and ingenious with a great pitch and hue of variety. Thuringwethil's heart began to beat faster, thumping in time with the pulsing rhythm. The others now were sung to silence or reduced to intoning discordant rhythms that could not match the strength of the new music. When they did attempt to sing, they were ineffectual, impotent, without depth or meaning, and soon they had dwindled to a cacophony of placidity and vapid, jangling tunes that were of little consequence and of no energy, and surely not of delight.

Then the wondrous music was silenced by a great Thundercloud of dark portent. Sauron winced in pain and His great chest heaved as the torrents of golden tears rushed in a cascade of sorrow down His face. Thuringwethil cringed and pressed her body against the protecting warmth of her fiery Master.

"I can bear no more!" He screamed and flung His hand across His eyelids. "Let the visions cease!"Grief overpowered Him.

In fear, Thuringwethil slid down His body and huddled nervously upon His mighty chest, her own body trembling in little bursts of dread. Gradually Sauron's weeping ceased. Then the music began anew, playing itself upon the walls of His chamber. The lone Singer sang boldly once again, and this time His melody was stronger than before.

The new music both soothing and invigorating, Thuringwethil calmed and stretched out luxuriously upon her Master's body like a great cat sunning itself. She put her fingers on Sauron's mouth again and was delighted to find that the corners of His lips were slightly upturned. "He is smiling," she thought, her heart swelling with gladness.

She rejoiced as she looked at the walls in pleased delight, for the vista was changing. The melody in all its harmonic wonder was joined by other voices and now the strong, brave Voice did not sing out alone. Others more attune to His music joined with Him and their song was one of haunting beauty. Awe surged through her being as she listened to the voice of this One who dared sing a different song, to rebel against those which followed blindly like sheep.

Then, like a thunderclap of wrath, the music was halted again, and Sauron wept once more. Thuringwethil's spirits sank and disappointment quenched her elation. There was now only crushing silence and a great, resounding, echoing emptiness created by the void of the brave, courageous melody.

"I die!" Sauron shrieked. "I can bear no more! Enough of this, for it tears My heart from My body!"

The scene on the golden walls changed again. Thuringwethil saw a great Figure, magnificent in power, clad in black armor, striding across a tangled landscape. His great hands reached out and clasped the raw essence of Arda and turned the banal light of the Eldar into a newfound glory of dark beauty. Fierce became their power, coursing with the strength of the One that endued them with new life. In this mighty bursting surge of creative power, the race of the Orcs was created.

Thuringwethil praised the might of the hands of Melkor, the very essence of untamed fury which dwelt within them. They could build and they could destroy; they could rend and they could bless. His hands could be gentle when He wanted them to be, for they had explored the secret places of her body many times, leaving her whimpering and pleading, begging for His touches.

With a sigh of yearning, Thuringwethil closed her eyes and thought once again of Him - Melkor the Potent, He Who Rises Ever in Might, the Lord of Wonder, the Master of the Fates of Arda. Silver tears welled up and escaped from the confines of dark lashes as billowing clouds of sorrow were stirred by sad breezes of melancholy. Memories of the old days came to her and she recalled how she would journey to and fro from Tol Sirion to Angband, bringing with her messages and leaving behind memories of wild nights of passion.

She was the trusted messenger of Melkor and Sauron, and both her Masters had been exceedingly pleased with both her speed in delivering their missives and the sensuous pleasures which she brought Them in Their beds. Both she had loved equally, though the greater part of her worship was, of course, given to Him Who was the more powerful. She opened her eyes and smiled through her tears, glad of the chance to behold Melkor again, even if it was only in a bejeweled vision.

Thuringwethil knew in her heart that Artano's will, that His mind, that His power brought these changes in the gems of the walls. Being a spirit of far lesser might, she did not have this strength, nor did she have this creativity, this purity, this ingenuity of intellect and of mind. True, she could weave spells of her own in the slivern halls which her Master had given her as a sanctuary, but naught she could do would ever match His divine power. How she ever delighted in Artano's touch and thrilled to be in His presence! She loved Him and all that He stood for, and cherished Him just as much as she had His Master. Now she lay upon the Dark Lord, straddling Him, comforting Him as He wept softly, holding her and directing the pictures that swirled about her on the beautiful, enchanted walls.

The bat-fay looked on in dismay as the scene began to transform once again. She was terrified at these new visions and dreaded the thought of reliving such painful memories. There He was again, Melkor the Mighty One, but this time He was brought low, defeated, humiliated. Thuringwethil watched as He was dragged forth from His chambers far below the ruin of the Thangorodrim, betrayed by His brothers and sisters.

The story was well-known to her, and she knew that Melkor would be condemned to a terrible fate. Though spasms of sorrow and anger rippled through her heart, she was thankful that she had never seen this great tragedy, for she knew that if she had, the sorrow of it would have been the ending of her being. She knew what had befallen Melkor, though; Artano could commune with Him in thought. He had seen fit to tell her, though it wracked His body with great, heaving sighs to recount the tale.

The Great One, the Benefactor of Arda, had been brought low by the jealousy of His kindred. Though He had sued for pardon and forgiveness, still the Valar betrayed Him, for ever were they wicked at heart. There, in the depths of His own mines beneath the wreckage of Thangorodrim, even as He was bending upon His knees in surrender, His perfidious brethren had laid hands upon Him.

Then, as Melkor had been held down by Aulë and Oromë, Tulkas had slowly hewn His legs from Him, laughing as he had done so, while Manwë wrung his hands and cried tears of false pity. Great was the agony of Melkor and His shrieks of anguish rocked the very foundations of His fortress. Yet His piteous wails brought Him no mercy, for the Valar possessed none in their blackened hearts. Then He was hurled upon His face and bound in the chain of Angainor. His iron crown was beaten into a collar and fastened about His neck, as He was forced to bow His head upon His knees in utmost degradation.

Thus was Melkor taken to Mahanaxar, the Ring of Doom, and then cast through the Gates of Night into the darkness of the Void. Great was the feasting and merriment in the halls of Valinor after the deed had been done. The Valar and all their folk had made merry and reveled, but Manwë had held his head in his hands and wept great copious tears of false sorrow. Nienna, wreathed in black, had wrung her hands, ripped at her hair and wailed in deep pity for Melkor, her moaning cries in stark contrast to lively music and boisterous laughter which rose from the City of Many Bells.

Though Melkor had been defeated and they, the viperous brothers and sisters, the false gods, had the triumph, they had not truly won. Melkor's spirit was indomitable, unquenchable and unbreakable, and His heart and mind would hold fast forever against the scoundrels who had dared tried to bring him so low.

"May they all die in the rot and corruption which fills their blackened hearts!" Thuringwethil spat contemptuously, her sorrow-drenched voice faltering and cracking. Her chest heaved with great, shuddering sobs and her bosom almost escaped its confines in her writhing fit of anguish. Yet her Master did not hear her, for once again He was weeping, a wistful look upon His face. Indeed He was thinking of all the things that she now thought, the great, somber, mournful visions growing, developing, taking shape, along the tapestries of His wall.

She wept new tears of her own and her silver ones joined with His of gold, mingling together and gleaming of their own accord like the light of the Two Trees. Melkor the Beloved was gone from the world now, and great was the sorrow of Thuringwethil. Many of the old spirits had also been lost when the earth shook and water poured over the lands, some reduced to wandering spirits of malice, and the fate of others remained a mystery even unto the Age of Men. She had loved many of them and had spent long nights coupled with them in sweet bliss; others she had cared little for and merely used them for her own designs or those of her two Masters.

Time shuddered to a halt as Sauron lived the sorrows once again. Then He sat up in the bed and pulled Thuringwethil with Him. She lay quivering upon His chest and ran her fingers through His long sable mane that had once been a golden red like the forge's fires. Casting her hands away from His hair, He thrust her to the side of the bed. As though to deny the scenes that He had created, He shook His head back and forth angrily. When He ceased, she watched His long, thick hair flow down upon His darkened nipples like black rain. Her breath caught in her chest and she watched Him, spellbound, captivated by His dark masculine beauty.

"Dance for Me," He whispered. "Dance for My pleasure and rouse Me from this lethargy!"

A tremor of excitement coursed through her body like the forked lightnings of Sauron's mighty spells of sorcery. "As You wish, my Master," she replied, her velvety voice coming through sultry lips.

Slowly the bat-fay slithered out of the bed, her body arching and falling as she crawled sensuously, her movements as sleek and graceful as those of a prowling cat.

The wanton creature of the night then stood before the Dark Lord, both wings folded about her frame, her smoldering eyes never leaving His. Slowly one wing uncurled partway, revealing half of her delicious body, her milky skin a splash of cool cream against the sable of her wings. Mischievously, she peered out, part of her face concealed by the smooth, sturdy skin which stretched between her long wing bones. A smile was upon her crimson lips and her ivory fangs gleamed. She ran one hand down the wing that still covered her, her hips moving in slow, tantalizing circles. Turning gracefully upon clawed feet, she tossed her head to the side, winking provocatively, her dark eyes flashing with lust. Wicked demon that she was, she teased her Lord with her shapely rear, the forms of her legs clearly visible through the skirt of her diaphanous silken gown.

Then, facing Him, Thuringwethil slowly unfurled her other wing, unveiling the whole of her body. A braided cord bound her sleeveless dress, crossing between her breasts and going about her middle where it ended in a loose ribbon. Her back arching, she raised her arms heavenward, her limbs swirling and twirling about in the air. Forward and back she moved, though her feet strayed not from their place, and her body rippled in waves starting in her belly and undulating over her whole frame. She oozed wantonly, like a river of sensual waters, warm and pleasant to the touch, and the silk pulled tight about her breasts, accentuating the two round mounds of delight.

And then, with a merry ring of laughter like tinkling bells, she spun away from the Dark Lord, dancing and twirling about the chamber. Her skirts would spin about her, a whirling circle orbiting her calves, and then she would turn, and the silk would wrap about her body, clinging to flesh moist with perspiration. Wild and sensual was her dance, ever changing from a frenzy of stormy passion to slow, undulating dance of sweet seduction. She would slide ever closer to her Master and then, laughing, spin away from His grasp, teasing Him shamelessly. Flighty and ever-changing as the wind, her graceful feet carried her upon prancing step, her clawed toes tinkling against the smooth floor like tiny cymbals.

She moved with the melody of the ever-shifting ethers, for since there were no musicians to play the sensuous songs of the dancer, she created her own music by summoning forth her powers. The wind howled eerily and her body writhed with the chill touches of the icy air, her own moaning adding to the lonesome song and creating a harmony both strange and alluring. Her voice was pleading and her cries were desperate, her wails beckoning, her body steaming but yet cold without the fiery touches of her Master. By her song and the movements of her body, she told Him of her eternal love, of how she worshiped and adored Him, of how she would be utterly empty and forlorn if any evil should befall Him or He should reject her and cast her away.

Then the ethers settled and calmed, and the whispering breezes were filled with sweet words of love and affection, praises and adoration. Wherever she went, there stirred playful wisps of musky perfume which wafted through the pleasant airs, and mists of shimmering light followed her path. Thuringwethil danced before Sauron's reclining form, her spirit soaring in heights of rapturous ecstasy far beyond the farthest star, and she deemed in her mind that she had at last proven herself as a worthy rival of Lúthien.

And then she spread her broad wings and took to the air, her passion driving her, and she flew and glided upon the ethers of love. Her body arched and then wheeled forward, her limbs flailed like a sheaf of wild serpents, and then like gentle waves of sleepy river waters. Writhing in the air, she flitted first here, and then there, before her Master, above Him, beside Him, and then behind Him. The chamber was filled with the sound of beating wings and songs of joy and gladness. Soft, caressing fingers retreated just as soon as they had brushed across sable skin, and the sound of her laughter added with the music of the wind. She fluttered and she flew, singing, dancing, her voice telling of love, promises, and nights when the sweet wind fanned the flames of desire into a blazing fury with the charms of supple lips, gentle fingers, firm breasts and silken thighs.

Then at last when she exhausted herself, Thuringwethil returned to her Lord, casting herself down before His couch. Her breath came in pants and gasps, her body was trembling, and her spirit was bathed in waves of rapturous bliss. Her eyes gazed up at Him, hoping for a word of approval, and she prayed that He would show grace unto her and ask her to stay with Him that night.

What did it matter if He loved her less than others... or if He loved her not at all? It was enough that she was here with Him at this moment, and there was the promise of the night and of His touch and of His lips and His hands and His heat buried deeply inside her.

**NOTES**

Little is known of Thuringwethil, other than she was Sauron's messenger and flew back and forth from Tol Sirion and Angband, and that Lúthien impersonated her when she and Beren went to Angband. In some theories, Lúthien disguised herself in a "shape-shifting cloak," though the book does not explicitly state that. This could be a carry-over from one of Tolkien's earlier drafts, in which Lúthien disguises herself in a dark, magic cloak made of her own hair. In other theories, Thuringwethil is slain and Lúthien enchants her pelt, as was done with Beren and the skin of Draugluin.

The word "fell" is an old word for an animal's hide. Yet what is the meaning of "fell" in this case? It could be literal or it could be artistic. In the Silmarillion, Thuringwethil is more of a plot device for Lúthien than an actual character, and it seems that she was not given much thought or chance to develop. In any event, if Thuringwethil was indeed slain, she would have had plenty of time to regain a form over the many thousands of years between the First and Third Ages.

The theory that she was a corrupted servant of Manwë was originated by Elfhild. Others have proposed that perhaps she was a maia of Mandos, but her preference for a winged, flying form seems to indicate otherwise. Nothing is known for sure. This is, after all, an alternative universe.

"[Haun] turned aside therefore at Sauron's isle, as they ran northward again, and he took thence the ghastly wolf-hame of Draugluin, and the bat-fell of Thuringwethil. She was the messenger of Sauron, and was wont to fly in vampire's form to Angband; and her great fingered wings were barbed at each joint's end with an iron claw." - "Of Beren and Lúthien," The Silmarillion, p. 178

"By the counsel of Haun and the arts of Lúthien he was arrayed now in the hame of Draugluin, and she in the winged fell of Thuringwethil. Beren became in all things like a werewolf to look upon, save that in his eyes there shone a spirit grim indeed but clean; and horror was in his glance as he saw upon his flank a bat-like creature clinging with creased wings. Then howling under the moon he leaped down the hill, and the bat wheeled and flittered above him." - "Of Beren and Lúthien," The Silmarillion, p. 179


	32. Bring to My Remberance Tol Sirion

Written by Angmar and Elfhild  
_Author's Note: Remember, this story has a mature rating for a reason..._

The bat-fay looked up at her Master with eyes that begged of need. Would He honor her this night, or would He disapprove of her dance and her song of love, sending her away unfulfilled into the darkness of the Tower? Her breath came in panting gasps as she sighed, her body and wings trembling, the sweat gleaming on her body in a glistening sheen. A chill wind stirred as the jeweled chamber faded into darkness. She was certain that the sudden coolness was a sign of His rejection, and her heart withered within her breast.

Though she had taken many lovers - elves, men, and those of her own kindred - she was jealous of the others who, at times, would bring the Dark Lord comfort. Those maidens of fire possessed spirits far brighter than hers, which was of dark winds and silvery nights. Sauron clung to them, she knew, and cleaved unto them, for they were of like kind. Indeed, she was not the only one who writhed in ecstasy at His touches, though He was less desirous of the flesh than was His Master Melkor.

Perhaps Sauron's practice of abstinence was what made Thuringwethil more possessive of Him and resentful of the others. She knew that this desire was wicked and selfish, for none could rule the Ruler of Middle-earth, but she could not help that absence kindled the hot, stormy winds of her heart. None could match His prowess or His passion, or calm the savagery of her untamed lusts. Thuringwethil was not His only love, but she was content most of the time that she was at least one of them.

She felt His moody eyes upon her in the darkness as He sat on the bed, His arms folded, His back leaning against the cushioned headboard. "He is displeased with me," she thought in dismay, and lowered her head in shame and humility.

"Any creature of mortal flesh has the ability to bleat out its lust. Do not expect Me to satisfy your cravings. Do not tell Me of your aching needs; I do not give into My urges lightly," He said contemptuously. "I would hear of things other than your unslaked thirst for My flesh! Sing a renewed song for Me, but if you can sing no better than you have this night, begone from My chambers and trouble Me no more!"

Thuringwethil's spirits wilted and her wings drooped in her misery. He had rejected her! She bit her lip to keep the tears from springing to her eyes.

"I shall do better this time, Master," she whispered, greatly abashed.

"The pain is great upon Me tonight, and little can bring Me solace. Perhaps, though, suffering is beneficial and will mold Me into a Being of greater purity. Compose for Me melodies that tell of what I love more than all else, Middle-earth!Sing to Me now, My bat-fell, My Thuringwethil, My creature of dark spun gossamer beauty. Sing to Me of the things that are in your soul. Bring to My remembrance Tol Sirion when Arda was younger and My cares were not so great. Speak to Me of nights when the moon hung dead in the sky and you walked upon enchanted feet in the dew-drenched vales of mist and time."

Thuringwethil watched Him, her fingers clutching the edge of His couch, and then she began to sing, her voice as soft and sweet as any songbird of Manwë. Her song was wistful, filled with a longing, a yearning, for days gone by. She told of when they would stroll hand in hand upon the shores of the River Sirion as the werewolves of the island serenaded them with howls, the melodies of the dark and dreamy night.

The moon hung full over Tol-en-Gaurhoth, glinting over the towers of Minas Tirith as the bats wheeled about it, but the riverbank was bathed in fog and they were surrounded in a world of mists and steams. Phantoms and shades passed by them, skittering into the darkness at their approach and peering out at their passing. Many were the rapturous nights when she had leaned her head upon Sauron's shoulder and sighed peacefully, very much in love with Him and His growing power.

Thuringwethil had been messenger then between the isle of Tol Sirion and Angband, delivering messages between her Masters. She would don her winged-draped bat form and fly soundlessly through the nights, singing wordless songs that were unheard to those of mortal ears.

Though she had longed to feel the heat of Melkor pressed between her thighs, she found that He had not time for her that night. Instead, He bade her depart and take with her a message bound for Tol Sirion and Sauron. She had been offended, for the message was not one of urgency and there was no need for her to be sent away so quickly. Strong were her suspicions that Melkor was taking His sport with elf maids, and crushing their virtue in His bed chambers.

"Flimsy, frail creatures," she thought resentfully. "They will die soon enough." Butjealousy still burned within her heart.

Angry, impatient and filled with unresolved lusts, Thuringwethil decided that there was no haste needed in taking the dispatch to Tol Sirion, and so she would dally a while in Taur-nu-Fuin. In that place of dark enchantment where the trees grew close and dark together, the nightshade blooming beneath their twisted roots, Thuringwethil would find many eager for her favors. In a wood black and deadly, laced with spells of dark and evil portent, the unfortunate traveler lost and not knowing his way would find his mind overcome by its horrors. There, amidst shades and phantoms, his senses reeling, he would think his body was being absorbed by the cool mists and vapors that traced trails of filmy miasmas through the morbid air. Then, shrieking and screaming, he would run, both from himself and from the terrors about him, his sanity departing from him as he fled.

Low over the trees she flew, her ears keen, yearning to hear the song of the phantoms who could tease her with icy lips or cool, trailing fingers that sought and found all the sensitive places along her sensuous body. Though they would oft appear as but a vapor to lesser beings, to one of her kind, their forms would take shape before her eyes, and thrust inside her until she was at last gorged with their milky flow. The fell shades, though unseen to mortals, were beings of great power, and both the giver and receiver of the pleasure would be strengthened after the exchange.

Though she listened keenly to hear one of their wailing calls, she heard nothing but the echoing silence of the night. Then she heard a shriek, chilling, fearful in its spectral urgency. She glided down between the trees and when her clawed toes had touched the spongy surface of the ground, she sensed beneath her feet a chamber and an undead presence. Then the thing clawed great handfuls of the dirt aside and rose out of the earth to meet her.

She stood atop an old barrow of the folk of Dorthonion that lay beneath the shadowy, anguished trees of the Forest under Nightshade. Years had passed since the people of Dorthonion had fled from the wrath of Melkor, and the only evidence that life had once held sway there was the ruins of old houses, barrow stones and mounds, and fading memories. Her pulse quickened at the sight of him, but his form was hidden by the tattered burial shroud which adorned the withered body that he now possessed.

"Hail, Messenger of Sauron," he saluted her, his pale spectral eyes glowing from empty eye sockets. "Why art thou abroad tonight, and why hast thou come to my abode?"

"I bear a dispatch from Melkor the Mighty and destined for Tol Sirion... but the message is not a pressing one. There is time to tarry." She looked at him and smiled seductively.

"The body of the one that I wear has not known pleasure for many years, and thy fair form could not bear its incorporeality," he wailed mournfully.

"I vow to that!" she chuckled, her eyes surveying the cadaverous body. "But the spirit beneath those foul trappings is fair enough! I perceive that thou art an elf who has lingered here out of love for Melkor."

"Aye, what thou sayest is true. I am an elf, and I make no boasts or false claims that I found the promised largess of Melkor harsh to my ears." He laughed, a hollow, dead sound. "The rewards were far more pleasing than the tortures I endured! Irons heated to white fury and driven into flesh that has been flayed open, oozing with blood and corruption, can be most persuasive. I cannot say that I was disappointed with His gifts, for they were generous, but the cost of them was high."

He moaned, a forlorn yearning sound that drifted away and was caught amongst the boughs of the trees. "All He required of me was a scrap of knowledge that had been denied unto Him. He promised that neither He nor His men would slay any if I but betrayed the location of the opening to a shaft, hidden in an offshoot from the main tunnel. Five of my fellows had secretly delved this passage amongst the twisting paths of the mines beneath Angband and had laid their plans to escape through it."

He sighed again. "I did not know of its location, but I promised that if the torture would cease and I would be free to go amongst them and labor in the mines that I would listen and report all that I beheld. I heard nothing of import for some months but then whilst I hid myself behind a column that supported the ceiling, I overheard two of them talking. Then I perceived their whispered plans and discovered whence the opening lay."

The shrouded form was racked with great shudders and groans. "When they were found out and brought, bound with great chains, Melkor commanded that none of His thralls were to slay them and that all were to go free. Then He looked at me, and once again I was caught in His eyes. He commanded one of His men to toss me a sword. Melkor's great voice boomed out and said to me, 'Free them and free them truly or they shalt stay with Me for a very long time!'

"I understood His meaning. He had not forfeited His promise to me that neither He nor His men would slay them, for He had planned all along for me to do the deed. I knew what would be the penalty if I did not. He would torture them with the most heinous of torments, unyielding, unwilling to allow them to die, and would hold them in suffering bondage throughout the ages and force me to behold their agonies. I freed them with the sword but I enslaved myself and my soul for all eternity!"

The elf-wraith looked at Thuringwethil with sad, wan eyes. "When the gate of Angband was opened for me, I was given a great treasure of jewels, sparkling wonders, my rewards. I longed to go back to my home, but I feared to take the gems and necklaces, the diadems, the rings, the bracelets, with me, and so I dug a hole in the earth and buried them and left them there. Then I made my way to my home. None trusted me and I dwelt in constant fear that my deed would be discovered, or that someone would find where I had hidden my horde. My rewards became torments; my blessings became cursings.

"Three years later, a gaunt wanderer came amongst my people. My face blenched when I saw him, and my heart rose in my throat, and I was greatly afraid. He had been set free from Angband and given a sword, belt and sheath. Melkor confided in him before he left that I was the one who had betrayed the others those years past. One of them was his brother, and he swore that when he found me, he would have his vengeance.

"My thoughts as I lay dying, my stomach ripped asunder, my bowels spilling upon the ground, were that I should give my slayer a reward like unto that which I had received. With my dying breaths, I imparted to him the knowledge of where I had buried the trove of jewels and, cursing him, told him to take the payment for his deed. As the blood rose in my throat and gurgled from the sides of my mouth, I tried to laugh... and then I died." There was a dry, rasping sound like leaves being driven by a scorching breeze, rattling along cobblestones in the autumn.

He let the shroud fall away from his face, and Thuringwethil frowned when she beheld only shreds of decaying flesh covering skeletal cheeks.

"Dost my visage displease thee, fair messenger of Melkor and Sauron?" he taunted. "Wouldst thou wish for me to cleave unto thy bosom! Though I knowest that thou wouldst that I could impale thee with a dagger of flesh, there is naught here to be had!" He threw back his head and howled wildly.

"Cast aside the form which thou possesseth," she enticed, "and I shalt find thee more pleasing."

Laughing, she glided up to him, swaying her hips and stripping away the robe which covered her. She stood with one hip cocked to the side, her hands going to her chest, her fingertips smothering the pillows of her breasts. Then her hands wandered down, slithering across her smooth stomach and then straying over her thighs.

"Thou art most bold and brazen!" he chuckled grimly. "And thou art far more perverse than even I, but, yes, I will commune with thee in the spirit."

The shrouded corpse fell lifeless to the earth and a pale mist wrapped around Thuringwethil, holding her about with spectral arms and breathing a cool, whispy mist into her ear. His icy voice was caressing as his misty tongue fondled her earlobe.

"Do as I command thee, and both thou and I shalt know pleasure. I shall feel the joys that thou feelest, and they will in turn bring me joy."

"Gladly," she purred.

Soon his spectral fingers guided hers, and her hands roamed over her own body, touching first here and then there until she fell to the earth groaning from the pleasure she brought to herself at his suggestions. As she lay upon the ground atop the barrow, his spirit enveloped her and soon her fingers left her writhing, wiggling and finally screaming out in ecstasy.

He sighed and rested above her like a luminous mist. "I have felt the memories in my spirit of the ecstasy when my strong staff pulsed in lust deep in the body of a woman. My spirit has longed to know such release once again after so many long years." She felt his misty lips on hers. "None, though, amongst the living come here now, and I have naught for company save the dead. Tarry with me yet a while, and I will bring thee much pleasure."

Long were the days and nights that Thuringwethil delayed with the elvish wight in the forest of Taur-nu-Fuin, and she lost all track of time, for what is time to the spirit of a maia? It had seemed but a few moments that she had been with him when they heard a great howling and shrieking above them beyond the tops of the trees.

Thuringwethil knew that voice. "My Master!" she cried to the elf-wraith, but before she could get upon her feet and the spirit could take sanctuary in the earth, Sauron in bat form was upon them.

"Unfaithful!" He had thundered. "Wanton whore! Thou hast betrayed both Melkor and Me! My wrath is great against thee, but His shalt be far greater than Mine! Strumpet!" He cried as He grasped her by the hair and struck her face. He beat her again and again until she fell upon the ground, bloody and covered with wounds.

Sauron's eyes burnt with the flames of hell. "Wretch!" He called to her lover. "Thou hast made of Me a cuckold and I have caught thee in the act! Get thee gone unto the farthestmost east and dwell there, never returning unto Beleriand! Thou art forbidden ever again to possess a body, no matter if it be man, beast or fowl! Melkor and Sauron disavow thee and Mandos can have thee if he wants! Thou art accursed for ever!"

Sauron pulled Thuringwethil to her feet and grasped her roughly by her shoulders as she sobbed and whimpered. "Tol Sirion has fallen, and I was wounded sorely by the demon hound Haun! They drove Me away and I have taken refuge here. Now I prowl."

"Tol Sirion, my Lord?" she gasped in alarm. "I did not know! How - how? And why dost Thou roam these woods instead of returning to Tol Sirion or to Angband?"

"Let thy faithless lips be silent! I will hear no more of thy guile! My wounds were grievous, but My strength is secure once again after many long days. Come now, I take thee as prisoner to Angband. Thou wilt hear the telling of it then!"

Silently the two flew in vampire form back to Angband. In truth, Sauron had been afraid to go back to Melkor and admit His shame. There was great comfort, though, in thinking that Melkor's displeasure might be lessened when He returned to Him the wayward messenger whose awaited dispatch had never been delivered.

Great was the wailing when they returned to Melkor's halls. Disaster had overtaken Him and great distress was upon the Ruler of Arda. Now only two Silmarils graced His iron crown, and Carcharoth the wolf had vanished. Catastrophe lay heavy upon the ebony halls of Angband.

"Where wert thou, Sauron? All these days hast thou been sought, and woefully those who looked for thee found the search futile. We had thought thee perhaps captive... or worse. Knowledge has already come to Me by My agents that Tol Sirion has fallen. Where hast Sauron been in those ensuing days?" Melkor stared down at them as though they were the dung of lizards.

"Master, I was grievously wounded and felt faint unto death. I would have hastened here, but My strength was spent. Lest I perish, I took rest in Taur-nu-Fuin, and there I found her dallying in a tryst." He stepped away from Thuringwethil and pointed at her with an accusing finger. "Her message was never delivered to Me!"

"The message was inconsequential," Melkor growled. Then His great hand pointed an accusing finger to Sauron. "Thou hast let Tol Sirion fall and failed to deliver Lúthien into My hands! She came here soon enough, though, and with her brought her lover!"

"Master, I did not know!" Sauron cried desperately. "How could I know? The demon beast Haun would have killed Me had I not relinquished the tower! I wouldst have come here in far worse shape than I am in now had that hell hound forced Me to relinquish My body!"

"And Sauron comest here, boasting of his own safety and not of his valor! Would that thou hast cometh back, stripped of thy body, and come in honor than to come back to Me in disgrace! While thou wert sniveling and cowering in the forest, and Thuringwethil was frolicking with yet another of her lovers, Lúthien came back to Tol Sirion in stealth and raided the tower!

"Where wast the Great Sauron when the pelt of Drauglin was ripped from his body, and Lúthien's lover adorned himself in that enchanted fell?" Melkor bellowed in His rage. "Sauron was cowering in Taur-nu-Fuin!"

Sauron cringed before Him.

"And where wast Thuringwethil when Lúthien took unto herself a disguise, that of the messenger! Together, in those false guises, they came here to Angband, to My very throne room, and stole a Silmaril!" The foundations of the great chamber shook with the might of Melkor's wrath, and ledges of rock along the sides of the Thangorodrim sheered loose and rumbled down the cliffs.

"Great have been your transgressions, and great shalt be your punishments! I have decreed this upon ye! First, Sauron of the greater guilt, thou shalt know the terrors of My wrath! Thy fiery locks shall be plucked from thine head one by one. Thou shalt hang thy head in shame as thy back knows the stripes of My lash! Great is thy vanity and vainglory, but years wilt pass before thou canst regain thy coveted long locks and unblemished form!"

"Master!" Sauron wailed and fell to His knees.

"Thou, Thuringwethil, failed messenger, thou answerest only to thy lusts! How like art thou unto Ungoliant! For thy transgression, thou, too, shall know stripes upon thy fair form. After thou hast been whipped and chastised, thou shalt be banished to the farthest corners of the east and there shalt thou stay until I call thee again!"

Thuringwethil wept and hung her head in shame.

Long she dwelt in the east, but Melkor never summoned her again. When the earth shook and the Inland Sea of Helcar began to shrink, she at first thought that Melkor at last had been triumphant. Yet there were no heralds who went to all the lands, and she realized that if Melkor had indeed been victorious, there would have been further destruction wrought to the earth. Her heart sank and she wandered in hopelessness and despair.

Many years passed; she did not know how long. The world was different, but yet the Mountains of the East and the Wild Wood remained, though there was no more Inland Sea, and Cuiviénen was gone. There were still elves, though, and dwarves, and men, who, as the years passed, spread throughout all the lands of the East, from the south to the north and unto the Eastern Sea.

She became a creature of legend and myth, prowling the earth on dark nights, seeking to sate her unquenchable lusts for lovers and power and blood. There were many others like her who wandered - demons, werewolves, vampires, lingering spirits of ancient days, and others far younger, the ghosts of lonely elves and men. She met many who pleased her and she abode with them for a time until she became restless and wandered away in search of new conquests. Many found her fair, but the love bestowed by many proved perilous to them, for if they were mortal or elf, she would slay them and become all the stronger for their blood. The terror of her spread far and wide, and many were the tales that sprang up about her deeds, and the people feared the darkness of night even more than they did already.

Her thoughts often lingered upon Melkor and Sauron. Her face burned in shame when she thought how she had failed Them. How could she help the desires which flamed within her, the irresistible urges which burnt at her heart and body, the demands of her yearnings which threatened to consume her wholly if she did not satisfy them?

At one time, she had tried to temper her lusts, to control them, but to no avail. She had been left aching, empty, unfulfilled, in agony and anguish nigh unto death until she could deny her driving hunger no longer. Power she craved and she obtained greater strength by bodily union with others, and she drank the blood of both her lovers and her enemies. Though she tried to protect those dear to her, her natural instincts now were to destroy and not to love, to steal the light of others and take it unto herself, leaving them withered, cold and lifeless. Had not Sauron been the cause of her lusts, so many long years before in Almaren? Yet she was condemned for the very urges which had become her nature.

Then one morning as she awoke in the arms of yet another one of her lovers, she felt a sudden yearning to journey towards the west. Terror struck her at first, for she feared that it was the summons of the Valar, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. But yet she sensed that all was well, and so she arose, leaving behind her the far east and several heartbroken swains.

She traveled many leagues until at last she came to Lugbûrz, where once again Sauron took her as one of His many mistresses. Upon arriving, though, she found that He was no longer the impetuous spirit that He had once been. His mind now was more consumed with ruling and order and bringing great changes to Middle-earth. He had also adopted the practice of long periods of sustained abstinence. Oft times now, the nights grew long for Thuringwethil, and He called neither her nor any other to His bed.

The song ended and Thuringwethil looked up at Sauron, her eyes misty like the nights on the haunted isle. Sirion was no more and there was no returning to either Tol-en-Gaurhoth or Angband. Now there was only Barad-dûr and Dol Guldur, and the fortresses and secret strongholds in the East.

"Little is left to Me now. Melkor was taken, and the world was changed," Sauron bemoaned. "All that was lost to Me because it had to be! I sacrificed Myself, as did the Great One before Me! If We had not, the Others would have destroyed all of Arda in their madness! I love it too much to let them do that! But the price was great and I have paid its toll! Look at My body!" He said as He flung aside the covering. "Can you not see how I have suffered?"

"Great is Your pain, Master," she sympathized, her voice soft and her eyes wandering, "and I would bring You sweet solace, if I may."

"Though the form which you have adopted tonight is graceful, it was the one you wore when you were in Tol Sirion, and I cannot bear to see it anymore tonight. Rid yourself of this shape and take that of a woman, comely and seductive, with firm, rounded breasts and buttocks that thrill to My touch, the form that you wore on Almaren. Let Me think of days when hope ruled the world."

She looked up at Him in the darkness and marveled as He bowed His head. There were tears in her eyes as her body took on a silvery radiance. Slowly she transformed before Him and gone were the wings of the bat, the cloak of night, the pert fangs in her mouth, and all the trappings of her bat shape. She appeared to Him as she had been in Almaren, a creature of beauty, a maiden of the wind.

He smiled when He beheld her in her transformed light. The glow of the jeweled walls began to transfuse and the gold began to blend with the silver. Her hungry eyes looked from His dark maned crown down His powerful chest, lingering a moment upon His corded thighs and His slumbering spear which nested in its thick patch of black fur, before her gaze trailed down over His sinewy legs to His feet.

When Sauron spoke again, His voice was tender, almost wistful. "I will hear of the silent whispers of the night wind as she sighs in darkened wood and cold mead. I would be held enthralled if you could, if only for one drop of time, one minute reckoning of the heartbeat of Arda, show Me a vision of when we first joined, our bodies becoming one. Let My heart rejoice in the memories that only you and I share, My Own, My sweet Thuringwethil, My sighing lover of nights long past. Let Me seduce you once again, My sweet nymph of wind-swept passion. Let Me feel once again the swelling urgency of the time when I first spread My body over you, covering you, and laid bare your purity, forming you into a thing of My own desires!"

**NOTES**

The version of the Lúthien and Beren story found in this chapter is based solely upon The Silmarillion and does not incorporate elements found in The History of Middle-earth series. The geography is based upon The Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad.

The concept of energy, strength and power being transferred (either willingly or not) by the act of union is indeed canonical. In "Myths Transformed" in Volume X of the History of Middle-earth series, some of the central elements of the mythology are reconsidered by J. R. R. Tolkien. There is the tale of Melkor and the Maiden of the Sun, Árië. He desired her light and came to her, telling her that he would espouse her and they would rule Arda together. She rejected and rebuked him, and in anger, he raped her.

"Melkor did not heed her warning, but cried in his wrath: 'The gift which is withheld I take!' and he ravished Árië, desiring both to abase her and to take unto himself her powers. Then the spirit of Árië went up like a flame of anguish and wrath, and departed forever from Arda; and the Sun was bereft of the Light of Varda, and was stained by the assault of Melkor." -"Myths Transformed," Morgoth's Ring, p. 381


	33. A Gift Spurned

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Thuringwethil sang of the beautiful island which was caught in the blissful glow of Illuin and Ormal as their lights mingled and became one. Her song told of the days long ago when she had danced alone, her hair long and swirling around her as the wind had joined with her in her song. Though her music was joyous, full-throated, rippling with all the energy of the young creation, she was not espoused and danced alone. None among the others had pleased her, no spirit like herself who captured her mood or her fancy. She walked through the forests of beauty, among the great trees which rose up, towering and golden, and marveled at each stem, each leaf, each tiny teardrop of dew that lay glistening in the glow of the Lamps.

She walked by the edge of the water and looked over at the land that lay on the other side, the border between the home of the Valar and what lay beyond. Captivated, she listened as the waters formed their own melodies as they rushed and danced over the shining rocks, then plunged, laughing, down into a gorge where the flow fell in a silver curtain of sprays and plumes, graced by the hues of the rainbow. The world was wondrous in its variety of beauties, but yet her heart longed for more, for a song that she had once heard. This melody stirred unrest inside her that could not be eased by any of the grandeur of the creation of Arda, nor by those fair and beauteous spirits who sometimes sang to her. She, with a haughty turn of her head, had found none which could compare or were as worthy to the Song which echoed in her heart from before Time began.

Kneeling down by the waters, she drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head upon them. She listened to the melodies of Ossë, but hearkened not to those harmonies. Her heart longed to hear again that other Song heard so long ago. As she thought, she pulled from her soul the strains of that melody which had soared with reckless, demanding ardency, filled with unrestrained potency. The One Who sang the Song could clench the whole of Arda into His mighty fist, and through His daring, create such audacious wonders that all the works of the hands of His brothers and sisters would be superseded, paling to inconsequentialities.

How she longed to hear that Song and to see the Singer once again, but He was far away, and she knew naught whither He had gone. As a silver tear slid down her cheek, she looked up and tried to listen to the singing of the water that rushed by, playfully skipping over the rocks, but she found its melody displeasing to her ears.

From somewhere deep in her soul sounded a faint chord. She looked about and saw no one. Then the chord grew stronger as it neared, but yet she could not glimpse the singer. Slowly the voice grew louder, rising in pitch, its timbre pure and harmonic. She stood up and joined her song with the unknown singer, and as they sang together, there was a new song, and the melody was bold, reckless, alluring, singing with a passion that she had yet to know.

Then before her He appeared in a vision of golden light, His face handsome, majestic, beautiful beyond any that she had seen. His long mane was russet, and when she looked upon those fiery locks, she thought they were the tongues of blazing flames. His robe was of purest white, and His glowing hair hung down to His waist. The long raiment which He wore was carelessly open in the front, down to His middle, and she looked with rapture upon His muscular chest. His golden-brown eyes were proud, arrogant, and hid mysteries that she had yet to know.

She sang a song of wispy beauty, innocent in its purity, but the song that He sang was of great might and potency. His name was known to her, and for a moment, she knew disappointment for she had hoped that it might be Melkor, He of the strident, bold song of the beginning.

The Maia Who sang to her was a helper of Aulë, and His strong, brawny arms gave proof of His prowess at the Forge which had helped to create Arda. The singing had stilled and His amber eyes possessed a light that had not been in them at the beginning. The depths of His golden-brown orbs held unrevealed secrets that His lazy, insolent smile promised.

Standing a distance away from her, He bade her to come to Him. Shyly she approached, frightened yet curious, and new sensations began to tease her heart and body.

"Give Me thy hand," a deep, enticing voice urged her.

She reached out, the tips of her fingers barely touching His, but she did not dare look up at Him, for she knew He was far more powerful than she. In truth, He terrified her. His hand pounced down upon hers as His great fingers spread over her small ones. She dared to look up into His eyes, and saw His scowling face, and she knew that He sensed her hesitation. Slowly, His fingers slipped away from hers and He moved away. Without His nearness, she became sad and forlorn. She bowed her head, and tears came unbidden, unwanted to her eyes.

Then she felt His hands again as He appeared behind her. She closed her eyes as He smoothed His hand down across her bosom. His touch was possessive, arrogant and impertinent, but the mere closeness of His hand had brought tingles of excitement coursing through her. Then His hand was gone again and she cried out, aching for Him. She stood there trembling, fearing that her desires had betrayed her, and she knew shame for the first time.

Then she heard a laugh, golden and rich in tone, and He was there, behind her again. She felt Him brush the raven tresses away from her neck, and then His hands, strong and firm, were about her throat. Her eyes fluttering closed, she sagged weakly against His chest as He fastened a pendant about her neck.

"Open thy eyes and behold My gift," He commanded, His voice husky and rich with desire. His fingers touched the pendant and then flowed down over her breasts, touching her nipples through the thin material.

She opened her eyes and looked down, and there, glowing between her breasts, was a pendant of cunning design, wrought with great craft and set with a stone of cold blue. His strong hands clasped about her yearning breasts, and she slumpedagainst Him more, close to swooning.

"Knowest that thou canst hide nothing from Me, for I know thy mind and the thoughts that lie therein. Thou desirest Me," He boasted as He trailed fingers of fiery passion from her breasts down her stomach. She knew that the heat He raised inside her body betrayed any attempts to gainsay Him that she might venture. Willingly she parted her legs for Him as His hand sought the seat of her passion, and she moaned as great shudders of pleasure washed over her form.

"Wouldst thou know Me?" He murmured in her ear as His wanton fingers seduced betwixt her quivering thighs. She groaned as a sudden paroxysm of delight reverberated off the walls of her secret cavern.

"Oh, yes, yes!" she gasped in ecstasy. Her mind reeled with the new sensations which she felt in her body, and she tried to compose her thoughts, to reason and to judge that which was wise. "But Thou art now in league with the Fallen One," she murmured softly, though her attention was more upon what His fingers were doing to her body, "and Thou walkest dark paths."

"Melkor hast not fallen!" He hissed angrily as He jerked His hands away from her as though they had been scalded with the venom of a great serpent. Stalking silently, He stood in front of her and folded His arms across His bare alabaster chest.

With an angry toss of His head, He shrugged a great tumult of His fiery mane over His left shoulder. "It is they, our kindred, who have plunged foolishly into a quagmire of their own lies, languishing there, struggling, disavowing the only One worthy to rule and favoring the insipid Manwë! Thou listened to His song at the Making, and thou hearkened unto it then, though thou wert weak in thy resolve. Another chance hast come unto thee. Promise that thou wilt leave with Me when the time is ready and forsake forever Almaren and our kindred and vow with Me undying loyalty to Melkor, the True Master of Arda!"

"And leave behind all that I know?" she asked, hurt. "My lord, who indeed may be insipid, and my kindred whom I love? These lands which I help enrich with calming, soothing ethers and pleasant vapors? And even ere Yavanna has awakened the birds so that they may fill the airs with their songs! I cannot leave with Thee, and be a part of this madness!"

"Dost thou holdest thyself too pure? What art thou powers? Nothing but a whimpering wind and vapors and mists that hold neither real power nor substance," the virile young God challenged.

"Though my powers may be slight, they were granted to me from the beginning to use for the betterment of Arda. Rather would I spread a cool breeze over the languishing brow and bring comfort than I would do great wonders with my gifts."

"When in the fullness of time all is in readiness, go with Me, to Him, to vow thy fealty and He will turn those weak, whispering subtle breezes into howling furiesof power and might. No longer shall the wind sing woeful, feeble songs that do naught but stir the leaves upon the trees! Let Him Who holds the destiny of all Arda in His hands give unto thee the power to drive the icy torrents of the snow, the sleet, the hail and the howling blizzards! Thou wilt have power and thy lips wilt sing with strength and might!"

He walked towards her and placed His mighty hands upon her slender shoulders, and she trembled beneath their weight. His grasp was as of heated coals in a brazier and His eyes burned with the fires of His fury. "Wilt thou reject My gift and Me with its rejection?" He asked petulantly, His upper lip curling contemptuously. "Or wilt thou accept both My gift and Me and with them both, enmesh thy fate with My Master, Melkor the Potent?"

"I reject thy gift and with it, both thee and thy Master! Depart from me! Thou hast fallen into wickedness with thy Master!" she cried, her heart breaking.

He bent forward and His heated lips came down, crushing her tender ones. His great chest pressed against her breasts as He reached behind her neck and unclasped the pendant. He pulled it forth in a fisted hand and crushed the necklace into melting fragments before her startled eyes, the shards oozing, steaming, molten, between His fingers. His amber eyes pulsed and glowed in His fierce wrath. With an irritated flick of the shoulder, He flung aside the long locks of hair that had cascaded down when He had bent to kiss her.

"Thou hast spurned Me, shunning Me, but thou shalt cry out in anguish when I am gone from thee. Thou shalt wring thy hands in sorrow when thou callest to Me and I shalt not answer. But, someday thou shalt heed My call, and thou shalt rejoice at the sound of it. Know this. Thou art not the first I have desired - and had, for I wilt have thee - nor wilt thou be the last," He asserted haughtily, contemptuously.

When He left her, she felt a hollow stillness inside of her being, and she was barren and cold, solitary without hope. She would sing to Him, but He would not answer. "Has He gone away to a far place and will come back to me no more?" she lamented.

The Spring of Arda was not yet marred, but the bliss of the wind maiden was, and no longer did she take delight in the newness of the creation about her. Instead, she pined for the bold and arrogant servant of Aulë, for she had become utterly besmitten by Him, her heart in awe of His daring and impetuosity. The Song of Melkor had stirred discontent where once had been peace, and she had come to resent her Lord Manwë and the other spirits of breezes and gales. Many were the spirits who were far more powerful than she, and great was the beauty of those whose tempers were akin to her own. She simmered in jealousy of them, for she felt that the loveliness of their feminine forms far surpassed her own, and she perceived herself lesser in all ways.

And so, greatly enamored of the Theme of Melkor, filled with envy for her kindred and longing for the affections of the hot-tempered Spirit of Flame, she spent her days languishing away in sorrows, waiting for her fiery-maned lover to return, for her heart had been pierced with the arrows of love.


	34. Innocence Lost in Almaren

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild  
_Warning: The Circles is a story for mature readers only! This chapter is one of those reasons..._

_The song of Thuringwethil continued, and she sang as the Dark Lord reclined upon His couch, listening to the tale of which her wistful, lilting voice now told._

A time of peace and creation was upon Arda, and long and great were the labors of the Ainur. The two Lamps beamed their blessings over Almaren, but discontent stirred within the Void. At last the labors of the Ainur had lessened for a time and Manwë called for a great feast and a time of rest and refreshment.

Her heart was not in celebration, for all her thoughts were occupied with memories of Him. Still, the maiden of the wind braided her raven-black tresses with silvery mists and dewdrops. At the waist of her white gown, she tied a corded length of silver and adorned her face with the kiss of spring breezes.

The hour of the feast came, and Nessa the sister of Oromë was to be espoused to Tulkas. The Gods dined and made merry, and Nessa danced in the joy and gladness of her heart. At last Tulkas came among them, weary from his toiling. The revelry continued, but Tulkas and Aulë, exhausted by their labors, had savored the ambrosial mead of the Valar and had fallen into a deep slumber. Thus Almaren in its time of triumph was found wanting for vigilance.

It was at that hour that Melkor came forth from beyond the Gates of Night and entered Middle-earth in the far north. With Him was a great host of spirits who had hearkened unto His Music. He chose that time to return for He knew that the Valar would be wallowing in their merriment and drunken sloth. Many were the spies He had in Almaren, and they informed Him of the doings of the Valar. The building of Utumno was begun, though the Valar knew naught of it, for their vision to the north was blinded by the light of Illuin, and Melkor made His home in the shadows beyond.

Lulled by their bucolic creations, the Valar boasted that their creative might was at its height in the Spring of Arda. All that they saw, the work of their hands, they blessed, for they were vain and contemplated their own glories. But their work was marred, set in time, and would not change, and withstood, veiled in light. Inside, though, the core was stagnant, never growing, only regenerating in a duplication of the banal and mundane.

But then it was perceived that a change was occurring. A raw, stronger and greater force, more mightier, innovative in purpose of design, was at work and was fashioning a new order. The old began to fall into decay and to make way for the new.

Plants that had swayed, simpering in the wind, giving only tawdry imitations of beauty, were wrenched forth from the earth, replaced by stronger varieties and kinds. Bold, vibrant life began to flourish in Arda, wrought by the hand of the Creator of all that was beautiful and good. Great creatures appeared, strong of claw and gleaming pearly fang. Blood was shed and seeped into the forest ground as the weaker perished so that the strong might thrive. Thus was the creation perfected with the elimination of that which was marred.

The Valar became jealous of the loveliness and knowing that their vapid minds could never conceive of such wonders, they suspected that the Master Creator had returned once more from the Void and had set His mighty hand at work to turn the canvas of all Arda into one of innovative delight. They began to search for Melkor, Who wielded the brush of the bright creative might that accentuated, highlighted in bold silhouette all that His Hands wrought.

The servant of Aulë did not return to the wind maiden again and she languished in the sublime nothingness of Almaren. She danced alone with only a mocking breeze that moaned around her body. The wind cried out in its distress and longed for the flame. Ages of time seemed to pass, and still there was no light to engulf her, to turn her longings into consuming fire.

Then one day when it seemed that all hope had died in her heart, she saw a golden mist in the distance, and she knew that He had at last returned! She ran towards Him, seeking to embrace Him, to clasp Him to her bosom, but He moved ever farther away. When she would approach again, He shook His head angrily. She fell to her knees, weeping, and then she heard a song, low, coming from the hidden reaches of Eä, calling to her, seducing her with its promises. She dared look up. He smiled and the glow of His beauty made her weep in joy.

"I have returned as a herald to bring thee hope amidst despair."

Kneeling before Him, she reached out and clung to His leg, resting her head upon His thigh. She looked up at Him, glistening teardrops on her lashes. "My Lord," she said, "the Others seek thy Master, and Thou must flee this island and warn Him, lest harm shall befall Ye both!"

He chuckled, His laughter ringing out like golden bells. "He knows of this, for He hast many here upon the island who have heeded His call, and are His agents and spies. I have come to gather them and take them to safety, for He Who Comes in Might shall destroy the world and make it anew, fashioned and designed according to His plans and to His alone!"

She shuddered and trembled, holding onto Him for protection, fearing that the world would crumble beneath her feet, and she would find herself floating in the nothingness of the Void.

"He would destroy Arda?" she cried in disbelief.

"Not destroy!" He exulted. "But remake in perfection with order and design. Gone shall be chaos and in its place there shall be order! Rise! Look into My eyes!"

She rose upon shaking legs and looked up at Him. Then she buried her face in the glowing heat of His chest and felt the beating of His great heart, which drummed with the rhythm of all of Arda. "Thou hast heard His Music, and thou knowest aforetime what are His plans. Join with Me in this. Let us create new splendors under His direction and guidance!"

"I... I cannot!" she wailed desperately.

"Thou canst tarry but a while," He said as He pushed her from Him and walked into the great solitude of the trees. There He stood at the edge of the forest and beckoned to her with one hand.

She hesitated a moment, but, enamored of Him and the song of His Master, she had been caught by the spell of His eyes, and she followed Him, compelled by a force far greater than she. Something had stirred within her heart and body, and desire grew within her, hot and burning with a fire that longed to be quenched.

She followed Him deep into the trees that towered overhead, their broad, sweeping branches sheltering them from the gaze of the heavens. Gone soon were the trappings of garments, and they looked to one another in awe of the beauty of the other's unclad body. Yet though she loved Him, she was hesitant, for was she not leaguing herself with rebels?

Then with a growl and a shake of His fiery locks, He was upon her, driving her to the face of Arda. She swooned when she felt the crushing weight of His great body as He engulfed her mouth with the flames of His tongue. In terror she awoke,having had no comprehension that He would force Himself upon her, for though she was frightened of Him, in her innocence, she had given Him her trust.

Smooth, silken thighs of alabaster were yielded unwillingly. His great frame rose, towering above her, and His smoldering eyes bored into hers as the curtained mantle of His hair fell in a fiery cascade about her face. The raw heat of His scorching sword rent asunder the unopened secrets of her hidden folds. Fighting Him, struggling against Him, unwilling to relinquish her light and strength, her clawing nails drove trails of blood down His chest and arms. Her delicate face was seared with the blow of the Forge-master's hand, and her head was flung to the side.

Crushed beneath Him, His hand caught her screams as He speared her over and over with the might of His rod. Her head lolled to the side as she felt Him draining the energy and power from her. Only half-sensible, she reeled on the edge of consciousness, feeling that He would soon slay her. A groan heralded the advent of His rushing crest of passion. Impaling her with a final great thrust, He filled her with the glowing, burning heat of His lust, and slowly slid from her, dissipated for a time, but never satisfied for long.

She lay there in a torment of searing agony and pled with Him to take no more. Insatiable though, implacable, after only a small space of rest, He was upon her again, ravishing her repeatedly. Her thoughts were of shedding her form and fleeing from the violence that had been done to her body. It was as though the Flame knew her thoughts, for He kissed her then, caressing her face, embracing her sobbing form in His great arms, calling her back from plunging into death.

But He offered no promises, no pleas of regret or remorse, only accusations with His gentled kisses. "When thou first rejected Me and My Master, I thought never to return to thee, but then I heard thy beckoning voice and thought at last thou had repented of thy folly. Didst thou attempt to trick Me? Thinking thee at last willing, eager to yield, l came back to thee from far away. Then thou didst hesitate when I answered thy call, and My anger was kindled against thee."

"It is not that I did not love Thee, for indeed I did, and I yet do. I feared the wrath of Manwë and the Others, but most of all that of Ilúvatar," she confessed, her voice soft and sad. "I also did not wish to abandon this fair realm, still so new in its creation, and forsake it for the unknown. While My heart hast always hearkened to the Theme of Melkor, He is considered as wicked and evil among the Great Powers. If I were to follow Him, I would be hated and reviled as is He! There would be no going back, and I would be sundered forever from those whom I hold as friends!"

"Thou hast been beguiled," He said, "ensnared in the deceit of Manwë. He hast no thought for thee or for the others, but only for himself, for he would rule all and make Melkor his brother slave unto him. There is no promise in Almaren save that of chains!" He cried in His passion.

A long finger traced the contours of her breasts, causing each pink nipple to bud into hardness. His amber eyes had lost their harshness and they looked into hers with softness. "Wouldst thou relinquish the ardor of My touch for the railing inditements of Manwë and Varda?" He said lovingly, His voice a caress. "Wouldst thou venture to speak to Mandos in his cold halls and Vairë as she weaves the tapestries of Arda? Or perhaps thou wouldst favor Nienna, who would cover the earth with her false comforting tears?

"Wouldst thou bring cheer to Yavanna, who cloaks herself with vain imaginings of vining beauty that twines into endless repetition, with no novelty, nor beauty of purpose? Wouldst thou go with Varda and call the stars to sing?

"The forge of Aulë holds wonders, and perhaps thou wouldst learn smith craft under his tutelage. He, though," His voice was voice cajoling, "has imparted unto Me all that was worth the learning. I sought a greater counsel than he, and one not so eager to give in to the meddling guidance of Manwë."

His moody lips were sullen as He looked at her, but soon they were upon hers and coaxing her once again to flame into passion. Her arms went about His shoulders and her lips sought His, demanding as she clung to Him. He pulled her arms from about His neck.

"Wouldst thou givest up this, My touch, My embrace, for the false hope of Almaren? Wouldst any of the Valar or the Maiar stroke the wind into the shrieking storm of consummated passion? Couldst their fingers bring such heat to thy body? And couldst any of them cool the heat of thy lusts in the soaring assent to spontaneous ecstasy?"

"Nay, Lord, nay!" she cried.

"Still, I do not believe thee! I sense that thou art as unsteady as a veil of mist and as inconstant as a wavering breeze! Thy resolve is not sure. Thou wouldst betray Us because of thy weakness!"

He pushed her from Him and rose to His feet, covering Himself with His robes, and drawing His hood about His head. "Twice now hast thou rejected Me, proving thy love a falsehood. I shall go to the other fair ones who are wiser than thee and take them with Me. Let thy heart burn in jealousy! Farewell! I will trouble thee no more!"

"No, no! Do not leave me!" she pled as she rose to her feet, though her body ached and her secret places were filled with a sweet agony. "Look to Thy handmaid before Thee! See her body covered with the marks of Thy love and bathed with the heady musk of my blood and Thy spent seed!"

"Thou hast rejected Me and I now I scorn thee and thy need! Keep away from Me, wanton! Seek thy pleasures with our brethren and plead with them to fill thy aching need and sate thy urgency!"

"Lord, I yield unto Thee fully and completely! Make of Thy handmaiden what Thou wilt! Fashion me as a creature fully submissive to Thy will! Rape my lips with Thy kisses, ravish me with Thy body, and bathe me in Thy radiance! I am Thine, Lord! Take me!" She fell upon her face, her naked body sprawled upon the green grass.

"Then I shall take what thou givest." An elusive light tinged His insolent eyes, and though the glance was subtle, there was no mistaking the look of triumph in His eyes nor His proud stance. He had conquered more than her love; He had conquered her spirit.

Bending down, He tossed her form over His shoulder, and this time she squealed in delight. Going farther into the woods, He put her down and quickly flung His robe aside. She abandoned herself completely when He thrust His hands under her thighs and pinioned her against a great tree that groaned and moved slightly away at such a travesty.

Lavishing His face with passionate kisses, she clawed at His shoulders as she felt His spear inside her again. This time the pain was easier, and she squirmed and writhed against the tree, moaning in sublime pleasure. When she felt His golden seed fill her once more, she called out His name again and again as He whispered softly in her ear, "Never sayest that I beguiled thee, for thou hast perverted thyself and gladly hast thou fallen into whoredom!"

They rested a while under the trees and she looked at His face in profile as He lay in repose. There was no love upon that face, but only an indolent smile of satiatedlust. The bliss in her heart fading at that sight, her look of besotted happiness turned into one of sorrow, and again she felt shame.

"Dost Thou love me, Lord?" she asked timorously.

He regarded her with a patronizing smile. "Of course... I love many... but I love Arda more!"

Hurt filled her eyes and sadness blighted her heart. "Wilt Thou take me as thy spouse, like Manwë and Varda, or Tulkas and Nessa, so that this deed might be honorable?"

Sweeping His tangled mane away from His shoulders, He turned to her and glared. "Such trivial matters as betrothals and marriages pale in the light of the great Quest that Melkor has set before Me! Canst thou not understand that there are greater things than sighing promises of undying devotion? All the world must be purged from the influences of the Valar! Nay, I shall not espouse thee nor any other, for I have not the time! And then, too," He laughed scornfully, "why shouldstI purchase that which thou and so many others give to Me so freely?"

Heartbroken, she buried her face in her hands and wept, knowing in her heart that He would never be true to any others save Himself.

A slow smile spread over His lips and lingered upon His brooding face. "Rise, adorn thyself and follow Me. I shalt lead thee to halls more splendid than the drear abode of Manwë. There, secure in the defense of Melkor's vast fortress, thou shalt be safe from the coming destruction, and we shalt spend our time devising ways of instrumenting Master Melkor's great hopes for Arda. Then we shall drink of the wine of our labors until we are spent, and then thirst no more when all is finished."

Realization struck her soul like a cruel knife. He would betray her to her own destruction, but yet she knew that she would follow Him wherever He led. She smiled the wry smile of the wanton as she realized at last what He truly wanted from her. He would break her heart by His rejection and mend it with His kisses, only to break it again, always reveling more in the rending than in the mending.

She was to be consumed by Him, thirsting and ever wanting, cursed with a spirit of restlessness, willing to be corrupted and to corrupt, insatiable, hungering, craving, eager to be a servant of His will, zealous now to mingle her light with darkness. Her spirit would be driven and never would she be satisfied until at last she was filled, gorged with His lust and His fire. Only would she be renewed when she was crushed in His arms, pacified only when the flame burned with the wind. She would crave Him beyond all things, and in her obsession, she would need but a single drop of His blood to bring her to a soaring climax.

As He led her away, pleased with Himself and His easy seduction of both her and other lesser spirits, He felt a sense of revulsion for what He had done, for a sense of goodness still dwelt in His heart. Vanity and impetuosity had ruled Him that day and in disgust, He reviled Himself. Repenting of what He had done, He vowed that He would never again act in haste, nor would He ravish another. Nay, He would punish Himself by abiding by His own code of abstinence. She and the other fair spirits would be well recompensed by the new freedom to allow their creativity to blossom under the guiding hand of Melkor. "Was that not enough?" He thought. "At times, it is necessary to use strong measures to bring about a greater good, and is it not worthy for the sake of the whole?"

Then when Melkor had summoned the spies who lingered upon Almaren, saving them from the ruin and adding them to His great power and might, He attacked by surprise and stealth. Down were thrown the two Lamps, Illuin and Ormal, and the seas rose in protest. Flames spewed forth when the beacons crashed in the destruction, and the fire and water spread across the face of trembling Arda.

Melkor and His forces fled from the wrath of the Gods, angry at being awakened from their idle repose and filled with dismay at the shattered wreckage of the Lamps. The Valar struggled to keep the world from plunging into utter chaos and desolation, but was in truth the hoped for beginning of a new order. Melkor safely escaped into His underground halls, for the Valar had other concerns as the earth rocked upon its foundations.

Thus ended the Spring of Arda.


	35. The Flame and the Wind

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild  
_Warning: The Circles is a story for mature readers. This is one of those chapters which justify the rating..._

Thuringwethil sang of all these things of ages long past, of her first yielding, of their first coupling, of the forbidden pleasures and first sins experienced upon the Isle of Almaren. She could not help but sing of her sadness, for she knew that often He spread His love among many spirits.

Then when she had sung her heart out to Him, He allowed her to come closer and she lay her head upon His bare chest. She felt Him tremble beneath her and soon He was ridding her of her thin gown. She twisted and entwined about His hands, charming Him, bewitching Him, bedazzling Him with her ethereal beauty.

He held His head back, baring His neck to her. "Taste My blood and drink of My power," He said, inviting. She looked into His glowing eyes and smiled sensuously, her crimson tongue flicking out over rosy lips. Her soft face hovered over His neck, her dark tresses drifting down and tickling His skin. Sharp little teeth pierced the skin of the Dark Lord's neck as He moaned and writhed beneath her. Her tongue played and splashed in the rising pool of sable liquid, caressing the stinging flesh to equalize the delicate balance between pleasure and pain. Several small rivulets escaped from her kissing lips and trickled down Sauron's throat. She sucked His black blood slowly, each precious droplet rippling through her body, touching her secret places. Raging fires of hunger coursed within her middle, and the threshold of passion swelled with her mounting urgency.

One hand caught in His mane, the other clawing His neck, she drank deeply, her Master's life-force kindling her rising fires to a flaming inferno. Her back arched as she greedily drew the blood from His veins, the dark ambrosia filling both body and spirit with sublime ecstasy and power. Then she trembled, gasping at the force of the pulsing storm inside her, as the gates of her need were rent asunder, and her dewy thighs dripped with the rain of her own nectar.

"Enough!" Sauron hissed and pushed her clinging, quivering fingers from His neck. Then He rolled over on her, holding her fast, as she closed her smoldering eyes. She felt a piercing jab in her neck as He sank His teeth, like fire-driven steel, into the flowing springs that watered her being. His incisors, like the iron spikes of a portcullis, held fast the blood-drenched tissue as her heart pumped torrents to answer His need. Murmuring dark words of obscene beauty, He pawed the rosy peaks of her breasts as He sucked and licked her neck, her life-force flowing into His mouth.

Soaring once again to the heights of passion, Thuringwethil floated among clouds of bliss. Though her body was pinned down by the massive form of her Lord, she felt her weak frame swaying in the winds, nigh to the point of swooning. Then His teeth slid from her throbbing neck and she cried out, begging Him to let her linger in forgetful ecstasy, moonless darkness of sensual rapture.

Her body giving in to the frailties of temporal flesh and her mind besotted with her own passion, she longed for Him to drain her life from her and leave her in sweet oblivion. He glared at her as He slapped her into unwilling sensibility, buffeting her face with mighty blows. She weakly recoiled from Him, but His mouth was quickly upon hers, savagely forcing her lips open with His piercing tongue. She swooned, her arms falling back, as she felt her mouth filling when He spat their mingled essence back into her throat.

Her life trembled, close to extinction, like the fluttering wings of a dying ebony butterfly. "Master!" she gasped as she felt strength returning to her. They lay there, entwined, their bloodied lips caressing. Her hips arching upward, she ground her body in gyrating, rolling circles against His, moving beneath Him in a stationary dance of primal hunger, of surging need and aching anticipation.

His face shadowed by the veil of His long, black mane, His eyes two glowing coals within a cavern of darkness, He growled His impending intent into her face. Sharp claws dug into her hips as He rose to His knees and pulled her quivering thighs around His middle. She screamed when His piercing lance tore through the pink petals of her secret flower, moistened by a glistening dew.

He drove into her slowly, tantalizing her inner fires. She moaned loudly as her thighs locked around His waist and she moved to meet Him in pulsing collisions. It was not enough for Him, though. He scowled at her, His disappointment showing as His thrusts halted. She wailed her protest and as she reached up to punish Him with her claws, He backhanded her viciously, sending her head flying to the side, blood erupting from her split lips.

"You are unworthy of Me!" He snarled down at her. "None are worthy of the Flame!"

"Master!" she hissed, her teeth bared and her eyes wild. "I am in agony!"

"Your agony is nothing to Me," He laughed scornfully, "but I do have My appetites, and I will be sated! Please Me! Let the wildness of the wind ignite the Flame and howl out its fierce desire!"

Grabbing her under the knees, He hoisted her legs around His shoulders and, drawing back, plummeted the innermost depths of her tender flesh. As the wind met the Fire, their bodies and spirits blazed into a raging inferno borne upon the zephyrs. He consumed her as she consumed Him, each adding to the other's passion and strength, their spirits and bodies joining, combining in a rhythm of lust. The jeweled walls undulated and moved with them, an ever changing vista, a panorama of moving shapes, forms and visions. She knew the wild frenzy of His love-making, and it was like a whirlwind of fire boiling into a raging inferno.

Thuringwethil felt that He would destroy her with His fiery power and beauty. His spear drove into the warm, secret place of her desires, until she could bear no more and convulsed about Him as He bludgeoned her again and again. The bejeweled walls hummed with Sauron's unsated passion as the wind fell back, moaning and whimpering. The Fire, now fully aroused, stormed in its lust and grew with the sweet zephyrs that fueled it.

Sauron held onto her tightly as He reached the heights of His aching torment. Then the Fire ignited, combusting in sparks borne aloft, raging and howling. With a great sigh, He erupted inside her, searing her with spurts of His liquid fire. Then with one last, great cataclysmic thrust, He fell back, exhausted, onto His dark bed. Thuringwethil sang as His rushing fire filled her, and her song was a whimpering wail, like the dying moans of the wind after a storm. She lay under Him and kissed His black lips, sighing, "I love You, my Lord."

His uncaring laughter rang in her mind. "You have satisfied Me, but did not please!"

How He delighted in her pain! But she was long used to the biting sting of His rejection, and so she bore it, not allowing it to pierce her heart fully. "Nothing ever changes," she thought bitterly. "He is as arrogant as ever!"

Slumber overtook Thuringwethil and she lay there in the cooling moisture of the sheets, sleeping lightly, one arm draped across her Master's great chest. She was aware of nothing until the sound of a door sliding open interrupted her rest, and she sensed that one of her own kind approached. Frowning, she raised her head and looked up, wondering what was the meaning of this intrusion.

The room was suddenly awash in light, and the myriad of charmed jewels which covered the walls and ceiling burst forth into visions that pulsed with the flames of a thousand flaring volcanoes. Into the room flowed a sparkling creature of ethereal loveliness, a spirit of living fire clad in the body of a woman, voluptuous and buxom of shape. Her hair was as burnished copper, long and flowing in tumbling waves and curling tendrils which swung across her golden raiment with every sway of her delectable body. Lust-filled green eyes burnt like the flames of heated copper as they gazed upon the dark figure reclining on the couch, and flickered with jealousy as they lighted upon the pallid form of a scowling Thuringwethil.

The Dark Lord never stirred at the approach of the stunning radiance who neared His bed. The sultry creature knelt before the King of Men and Lord of Middle-earth, her head pressing against the couch, slender fingers of alabaster and pale rose digging into the coverings.

"What comfort do you bring Me?" Sauron asked, not bothering to open His eyes.

"The raging fires of the forge of love," she purred seductively, "the heat of my body, which burn ever for You, my Lord. Master," she whimpered, "I bring You the boldness of the blazing fire... even Arien dims in the light of my passion! There are no limits to my ardor or desire, and only You can quench the fire that rages inside me!"

"Why should I bother with you?" He stretched languidly upon the couch. "I am enough in Myself!"

"Master," she sighed breathlessly, "I am a maia of fire, far lesser than You, but of the same spirit. Let our essences combine and burn together!"

He yawned and opened His eyes. "Then stoke My fires," He said listlessly.

"One touch, Master, and You will know!"

"Then let Me know."

The woman of fire reached up across His form, her hand surrounding the slumbering ember.

"You are a shameless whore," He sighed in the pleasure of her fondling hand.

"I know," she laughed as her deft fingers stroked the fires into life.

Sauron turned to the dark beauty beside Him and chuckled, "I need much comfort tonight."

"Should I leave, Master?" Thuringwethil asked, hurt, her spirit sinking into abysmal depths.

"Nay, stay," He said. "I need two shameless whores... My hunger is insatiable."

"Master," a full, rich voice entreated, "shall I come to You?"

"Nároméra, Spirit of Fire, yes, I will allow it."

"But what about her?" A resentful, sullen glance was cast to Thuringwethil, who returned the bitter look with a spiteful glare of jealousy and hatred.

"I would obtain some comfort tonight... if either of you could provide it," He laughed devilishly.

"I am more than happy to try, Master!" Nároméra smiled wickedly.

"There is no solace in false promises," Sauron said, looking to Thuringwethil, whose heart felt the withering blight of rejection.

"Mine is not a false promise, Master," the fire spirit replied with obvious eagerness as she rose upon graceful feet and stripped the golden gown from her body, letting it fall shimmering upon the floor. She moved to the Dark Lord in rippling waves, clasping her ample breasts with her hands and pushing them together. "Do they please You, Master?" she asked, slowly rolling her bosom in wanton fashion.

"Of mild interest," He yawned, "though they could be larger."

"Master, please give me leave to go!" Thuringwethil wailed.

"Nay, My sorrow is very deep. Stay, perhaps you can be of some use!"

Then with a low moan through pouting lips, Nároméra flowed into the bed, her warm, heated body brazenly straddling the Dark Lord's loins. She bent over Him, her burnished tresses hiding His face and her taut nipples dragging over His chest. Purring like a cat in heat, she laved His lips with moist, fiery kisses as He lay unaroused beneath her.

"Is Master displeased?" she sulked as she leaned back on her knees, resting her hands on His great thighs, her breasts thrust forward.

"No, uninspired."

Shamed, Nároméra bent her head down, an unhappy tear splashing on His chest. Thuringwethil beheld the fire spirit through narrowed eyes, smirking in contemptuous glee at her pain.

"Thuringwethil... inspire Me," the Dark Lord said impassively.

"You need my song, Master, to whip Your fires into white hot passion," she boasted arrogantly, sneering at Nároméra.

Thuringwethil slithered onto her knees and sensually crawled to the crown of the Dark Lord's head. Bending down, she graced His lips with a long, lingering passionate kiss which she was slow to break. Then with a searing glare at Nároméra, she flippantly spun around, arrogantly turning her back to her rival. Shifting her position, she moved back until she hung suspended over Sauron's face, sighing in pleasure as she felt the stirrings of His breath just beneath her mound of delights.

Sauron pulled the dark shadow of the night closer and grasped one of her firm, round hips in His hand. He moaned His kisses into her dark depths as the fire spirit slowly lowered herself, teasing His flickering flames. His other hand idly caressed over Nároméra's quivering stomach. The tapestries of fire and shadow upon the walls reflected them in a pale golden light.

He gasped in surprise as Nároméra suddenly engulfed Him in her flaming pit of desire. His face convulsed in regained lust, tensing into a mass of desire, Sauron rekindled the passion of the Wind with lips, tongue and teeth as she sighed and moaned. His strong, hot fingers grasped Thuringwethil's rump as she hovered over His face. The Flame was whipped into a howling fury, a maelstrom of desire, as the Wind teased Him into a cauldron of heated lust. The flames joined together as the wind ignited them into a flaming orb of energy and vitality.

Mists of lust formed about them, rising about them, covering them all in a thunderous crescendo of fire and raging wind. The jewels on the walls reflected their heat and whipped into visions of thrusting, undulating bodies. The Flame caressed both, giving to them His potency. The three ignited, combusting, their joining spirits transfused, permeating each one with raging, hot flames which rose up into the ceiling, blending and merging, twisting and transcending, joining in ethereal ecstasy.

Then they coalesced in spiritual beauty, pale flames rushing about them, and hung quivering, trembling, convulsing as violent contractions whipped them, driving them into melting fires. The Dark Lord thundered out in furious fulfillment as His burning essence like liquid fire poured into Nároméra, who shrieked and hissed in her ecstasy. Thuringwethil howled like a storm at sea and splashed waves of sated pleasure over her Lord's mouth.

At last spent, their forms once more appearing, the three lay panting upon the bed, their ardor extinguished, each one satisfied. They lay exhausted, the moaning wind sprawled across His chest on one side and the now quieted Nároméra on His other. Claiming dominion of both the wind and the lesser fire, Sauron first threw one great heated leg over Nároméra's calf, and then threw the other over that of Thuringwethil. Both lay alongside Him, nuzzling and kissing His neck.

"There was some comfort in that," He smiled lazily, "but it could have been better."

The Lord of Flame closed His eyes, sated for the time, as Nároméra purred beside Him. For Thuringwethil, there was only suppressed rage towards yet another rival for her Master's attentions. The wind sighed softly and wept great tears in the deep places of her heart. Why had she even bothered to answer Sauron's summons and make the long journey west? 'Twould have been far better had she stayed in the East, where she was both worshipped and feared, than to dwell in the tower of a petty Maia as just another of His many mistresses!


	36. Those Doomed to Die

Chapter Written by Angmar

The Morgul Lord had sent Krakfakhthal to find Zagbolg, whose beast had gone down near the Thrihyrne during the battle. When Zagbolg was found after dark, his fine black garments were in tatters.

"Zag, what have you been doing so long upon this mountain? I would not have guessed that you could find a maiden so far up upon the slopes of the Thrihyrne. She must have been a fiery one and quite unwilling by the looks of your clothing," Krakfakhthal laughed good-naturedly. "Are those the scratches of long fingernails upon your face?"

"Save your jesting, Krak," Zagbolg hissed. "I am in no mood for it."

"I see you are limping, and quite badly. Where are you injured?"

"My dignity first and the other place is none of your damned business!"

"Oh?" inquired Krakfakhthal impishly. "That Rohirric girl must have worked you well. Why did you not wait? I would have joined you. These wild wenches of Rohan are much like the women of my old kingdom. You would have liked them. They wore nothing but an animal skin tied about their waists and their long golden hair covering their breasts."

"Why must you tell me these stories at a time like this? I am so sore I can barely walk!"

"They would have caused you to be much more sore, my friend!" laughed Krak. "I tell you these stories to make you feel better, nothing more."

Zagbolg laughed weakly as he painfully limped towards Krak's beast and winced as Krak helped him climb behind the saddle. Soon the winged creature had lifted into the air and was speeding its way back towards their own lines.

"Do you have to moan so much?" Krak asked innocently. "The ride is quite smooth."

"The beast's spine is like a jagged mountain spur and I am sitting atop it," Zagbolg groaned.

"Shhh," Krak whispered. "Your wailings shall quicken the dead!"

Zag only groaned again.

***

"Udukhatûrz! You are drunk!" Rutfîmûrz the Sixth exclaimed as his beast settled to the ground near the carcass of Udu's mount.

"Not drunk, merely pleasantly inebriated," Udu said, suppressing a hiccup. Sprawled upon the ground, he picked up the wineskin that lay beside him. Shaking the skin, he said, his voice thick, "There is some left if you would care to partake of it with me."

"No, I care for naught right now. I am supposed to retrieve you and take you back quickly. We should not tarry... How many wineskins did you drink?" the Sixth asked, alighting from his beast.

"Four, I think, but I am not sure at present. They are moving along the ground too rapidly for me to tell."

"Let me smell your breath," Rut said, walking over to him and bending down. "I smell wormwood, honey, charnel flowers, distilled water from the Morgulduin and hmmm... what is that potion? Ahh yes, you have been drinking Dushûrz-Gabhîk, and one skin of Nurnian wine."

"It was the Nurnian wine that did it," Udu said, sighing happily.

"You know better than that! The Dushûrz-Gabhîk is an enspelled draught, while that of Nurn is merely a simple brew. Why, why?" he asked. "Why did you drink this bewitching wine when the other would never had so great an effect? For that matter, when you saw you were approaching drunkenness, why did you not say the spells that would have brought about sobriety?"

"Because of this," Udu said mournfully, pulling a medallion upon a silver chain from beneath his halberk. Its design was of a stylized, mystical flying creature somewhat resembling a moth with glowing red eyes. Its two large black wings were each adorned with a single row of tiny red eyes, and below and above each wing was a white plume tipped in black. The white underside of the creature was marked with red and green scales, and the tiny feet of a rider wearing pale boots could be seen peeking out from the juncture of the body and the wings.

"I see no problem with it," Rut said, squatting down and resting on his heels. He held out his hand and, after taking the medallion, he peered at it intently. "Perhaps a small mark here," he said, tapping on the image's abdomen, "but nothing more." He handed the medallion back to Udukhatûrz.

"That is what I mean. That mark there. It was much worse before I turned my attention to mending it by a spell. The chain also was rent, but I have joined the links on it together once more. This is as much as I could do to heal the damage. Before, though, the stomach of the emblem was rendered asunder!"

"How did this occur?" Rut asked, puzzled concern in his voice.

"When the beast fell to the earth, I was thrown far from it and landed upon my chest." He rubbed his hand across his mail. "This, too, was rent, and my body sustained some damage. Nothing major, I assure you, nothing that will not heal quickly, considering our nature." He shuddered. "Had I been yet a mortal man, I would have perished. If not from the fall alone, then the piercing blow from the rocks upon which I landed! You know," he said, looking into Rut's grey eyes, "this emblem is of great symbolic and esoteric significance. In theory, it is impossible to damage, but yet it was! A bad omen!"

"You read too much into it, Udu, far too much. Next," he laughed, "you will once again be consulting the entrails of goats, cattle and birds to determine the meaning of both omens and what the future holds."

"Nay, I think not. That was a point in my seeking that I passed long ago. We all did, and we shall never go back, having the knowledge that we now do. But can you not see the meaning of the arrow in my beast's middle, the rend in my armor and medallion, and the bruise upon my chest over my heart? I am doomed to die. Perhaps very soon. Can you not see it, my friend?" he sighed and a soft wail escaped his lips as a tear started down his cheek.

"I see that you are very drunk! This is unlike you, Udu. You never cry when you are besotted. You seldom cry at all. It was too much of the Dushûrz-Gabhîk. You never should have drunk it. Here, I am going to get you up," Rutfîmûrz said as he rose to his feet. He held out his hand to his brother to help him up. Udu grabbed his hand and held upon it like a drowning man holds onto a spar. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet, but then started to crumple to the ground. Rut grabbed him and Udu swayed in his arms, unable to hold himself aright.

"Take control of yourself! Never have I seen you like this!"

Udu looked into the eyes of his brother. "Doomed to die," he mumbled. "It is an evil portent, but it is not surprising. Consider, my brother, all that has befallen us. Another storm like unto Pelennor. The sudden appearance of the Elves, led by Glorfindel, who challenged us with spells not heard in many a long year, and as potent almost as our own. Then our strength steadily lessening, first with the lost of Krith, then Zag and then me. I tell you it is an omen! We will lose this battle! We have already lost it!"

"You have lost your courage, Udu! You are worse now than the King was after that wench challenged him! You have lost all confidence in yourself, in us, in everything!"

"I lost confidence long ago in all except the King and you! I know how Gothmog and Skri have wavered."

"They were captured and did what they did against their wills. They were forced by a greater Power... and the Things that bind us. They did what they had to do. Their hearts are no less loyal even unto this day."

"Doomed!" wailed the Seventh Nazgûl.

"We cannot die!"

"How do you... know? Once the power existed to slay us all... the Bane of Mordor... Once, we thought they were all hidden safely beyond the sight of man, protected by our own folk... but of late, two have have been seen, one upon Amon Sûl last year, the other upon the fields of Pelennor in the spring. Should more be found, who can say, in truth, that the ancient knowledge cannot be learned again? It was once..."

Rut looked at him a long moment. "Did you say there was some wine left?"

"Aye."

"Then let us drink it."

Udu smiled, a foolish expression upon his face, as Rut eased him to the ground. Then Rut sat cross-legged beside him, the wineskin between the two men.

"There is more in my saddlebags... I was prepared," Udu said happily.

"But He will see. He will know," Rut said as he reached down and took the wineskin. Taking the cork between his teeth, he opened the bottle and drank deeply.

"He does not watch all the time. His attention is drawn to other things. Have you felt His presence, His attention upon you, all this time that we have been here talking? Do you feel it now?"

"Nay, nay! Perhaps He has sympathy towards us... for a time."

Udu laughed and slapped him on the back.

"I am glad I swallowed before you did that," Rut laughed, handing the wineskin to Udu.

It was not until the wineskin had been drained that Rut rose to his feet and looked down at Udu, who sat upon the ground, singing, keeping time with the song by waving the wineskin back and forth.

"We must leave."

"I cannot," Udu mumbled.

"What?"

"Walk."

"Yes, you can, with my help."

Giving him his hand, Rut helped Udu to his feet. Soon Udu was leaning against him, smiling into his eyes, his arm slung across the other's shoulders.

"You know you are drunk, do you not?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Can you even get on the beast?"

"Which one?"

"Drunk," he said, and shook his head. Rutfîmûrz sighed. "You know I do not want to do this. You know I would never do this, were you not besotted, bawling like a babe."

"Do what you must." He attempted to shrug his shoulders and then stumbled. "Perhaps next time, I will not drink so much Dushûrz-Gabhîk... at least not so much at one time," he laughed.

Rutfîmûrz, who was quite strong and broad of chest, a mighty man when he had been a great lord in the Númenórean colonies and now stronger by far than any mortal upon the earth, picked his brother up in his arms and slung him behind the saddle. Rut bound him there with some rope from his saddlebag so that Udu would not slide off, either while the beast still remained on the ground or when it was in flight.

"Sorry," he apologized.

"Quite all right. I do not mind at all." Udu launched into a bawdy tavern song which had once been popular long ago on the docks in the south.

Opening Udu's saddlebags, Rutfîmûrz took out a small packet of military dispatches and tucked them into the saddlebag on his own beast. Then he took the remaining two wineskins, one containing Dushûrz-Gabhîk and the other Nurnian wine, and tossed their straps over the pommel of his saddle.

As Rut swung into the saddle, Udu said, "I see you brought the wine."

"Indeed! One must be prepared for all eventualities. Here," he said, passing the wineskin back to Udu, "drink! I am sure you will turn sober as soon as you see the ire of our Captain."

"The omen is true, no matter what you might think. I am doomed to die. I do not need a soothsayer to read the signs of swans that fly from north to south, nor the divining of seers as they swirl potions in liquid. The livers and entrails of beasts could yield no hidden knowledge of my future to the haruspices. Neither by the sun nor by the moon nor by the stars in the sky do I seek presages. All is written in the emblem. I know," he said, taking out the medallion and staring at it intently, "and I am resigned, for what can I do? Fate, it is said, was decided long ere we were born, and when destiny falls upon us, we know its sure signs, its meanings."

"You are wrong, we cannot die! So it is said and you must believe!"

"I believe in nothing but the King and you." Udu drank again greedily and then passed the wineskin up to Rut. "Drink, drink! We must be prepared for all eventualities."

"Indeed," Rutfîmûrz confirmed as he drank and the beast began to rise into the air.

"It will ease the grief," Udukhatûrz encouraged.

"I am not grieved," Rut said. "There is naught to be grieved about."

Tapping his amulet, Udu reaffirmed, "This, the rent, the omen, the harbinger of certain doom. I am not sad, and have no fear. From the beginning to the ending, I have no sorrow, remorse or regrets, save one. I am glad for my long space of years, which some would say were ill-gained. I have lived them to the fullest even as I lived those before. I remember the comradeship... with some of you at least, and the women, always the women, and the drinks and the dancing, and the wealth. No regrets save that one thing, and you know what it is."

"There are others of us who have that regret, but, Udu, you talk as though you were on your deathbed, preparing to relinquish your life, give it up willingly almost. You are hopelessly drunk!" He passed the wineskin back to Udu. "You might as well get even more besotted, if that is possible."

"I have enjoyed it all," he said after taking a mouthful of wine. "Every last moment! Wherever I go, after I am dead, and I do not know where that may be, I will miss our lord and you, Skri, Gothmog and even Krak," he reflected after draining out the wineskin, and once again took to waving it in his hand, a silly look upon his face as he swayed back and forth.

"It is a good thing indeed that I bound you to this beast by ropes, or in your drunken stupor, you would have surely fallen off!"

Udukhatûrz then turned his full attention to another humorous bawdy ballad which he had learned so long ago.

In a town of cobbled street with many a winding way,  
The night was dark, the gates were barred, a'waiting for the day  
A wandering minstrel, lute in hand, in a tavern played  
His tune was done, his song was sung, and then he saw a maid

A tavern wench was she and she paid him scarce a glance  
Until the minstrel hopped upon a tabletop and there began to dance  
The crowd cheered and stamped their feet, eager to see more  
And then across the room he spied, clad all in red, a buxom tavern whore

He danced faster, singing now a tune so fair and sweet  
The crowd screamed so loud and rose upon their feet  
Then upon mincing step, the slattern strolled across the floor  
The fair maid, jealous, stomped her foot and rushed out through the door

"Nay, fair lass!" the minstrel cried. "I would not have it so!"  
He took one look at willing bawd and said, "Alas, I must now go."  
The maid ran on, offended she, and did not look behind  
On racing step, now panting breath, a circuitous course did wind

"Come back! Come back!" the minstrel cried. "I will not do you ill!  
"Come back, come back!" he said and raced her up a hill.  
Upon its top, he caught her fast and dragged her 'neath a tree  
"Lie with me," he pled, he gasped, "and I will then love thee!"

"You are a wanderer, low and vile, and my treasures will be shut  
"Go, villain, far from me, and take to you the slut!"  
She slapped his face and clawed and squirmed, but all to no avail  
He pushed her to the ground as she began to wail

"No! No!" cried she. Beneath him pinned, she looked him in the eye  
"Villain foul, before I would yield to you, I would surely die!"  
In the tavern, the whore heard about her the laughing of the men  
She flipped her skirts above her rump and then stalked out the den

The patrons roared as she turned up the fair face of the moon  
"Stay, O stay," the men called out, "and give us this fine boon!"  
"Nay," cried she. "I hear you not; you have cut me to the core!"  
She held up her nose and cursed and moved out through the door

The tavern knaves followed her up the hill, but she outpaced them all  
The maiden screamed, the minstrel cried 'neath the tree so tall  
The whore stumbled in the dark and fell upon her knees  
And landed upon the minstrel lad who gave a strangled wheeze

The maid clasped her gown to her bosom now so bare  
And turned and fled, her steps so quick, like a fearful hare  
The minstrel jumped to his feet and tried to catch her shawl  
The tavern louts pulled down their trews and tumbled in the brawl

The red gown was undone, the whore's flesh was pink and plump  
As all the men wrestled to be the first to cleave her comely rump  
The night was dark, the moon was dim, the minstrel heard a rip  
And then to his great dismay he felt his trousers slip

The maiden raced, followed by the minstrel swift and fleet  
Until his trousers fell and tangled about his feet  
The tavern knaves passed him by and chased after the tavern maid  
The louts charged up, their lust unspent, and she was quickly laid

The minstrel sat, face in hands, and cried, "My heart is torn in twain!  
"I have sung and played a score, but all my labors are in vain!"  
His ruined breeches held him fast, twisted about his knees  
His heart was broken, his love was lost, and he sighed into the breeze

The knaves came swaggering back and with them proudly brought  
The winsome lass, the one so fair, the one for whom he sought  
The moon peeked down, white and bright, o'er top the hill  
And Tilion watched and gawked and stared until he'd had his fill

The minstrel gathered up his pants, a scowl upon his face  
Then taking up a fallen branch, he left the woeful place  
And upon finding the crowd, the maid and the loutish swains  
He lashed at them with the branch, and so the race began again

Then back into the tavern, all of them did dash  
And fell in a heap upon the floor with great resounding crash  
"Stop!" yelled the tavern-keeper, and picking up a lout  
With hands on neck and seat, he quickly threw him out

His fellows followed him and thought their friend was dead  
Then they cried, all alarmed, and bore him to his bed  
The whore wrung her hands, and feared her trade was lost  
Then she walked to a table close and tallied up the cost

The maid once so pure was now a maid no more  
In disgust, the minstrel took up his lute, striding to the door  
And as he walked, he boldly sang as on his lute he played  
The Song of the Whore, the Minstrel and the Lusty Tavern Maid

Udukhatûrz was singing the song again for the second time when at last in the darkness of evening they came upon their Captain, his Second-in-Command, Khamûl, and Gothmog the Third and Lieutenant of Minas Morgul. The Captain gave them both a stern, dour look.

"I suggest you try to sober up, Udu," Rutfîmûrz entreated.

"I think I am sober," he said.

"I think you are not," Rut chuckled.

"I was able to sing the entire ballad," he retorted, taking offense.

"Aye, and doubtless you curdled the blood of all below! There is one thing you will never be, and that is a bard!"

"Possibly not, but in any event, should I indeed be doomed to die, may death find me with a song on my lips, a goblet in my hand and a fine wench on my lap!"

"Drunken fool!" Rut laughed and shook his head.

**NOTES**

"Haruspices" - The art of haruspicy dates to the dim reaches of the past. In this practice, animals were sacrificed and their organs examined by those trained in the art. It was thought that the future could be divined by observing certain signs shown in the entrails, especially the liver.


	37. Those Doomed to Live

Chapter Written by Angmar

Long had the Eighth searched that day for the Ninth, whose beast had been the first to go down that day, felled by an Elvish arrow. Far from the battle, in the fields of the Westfold, Skri had espied the crumpled body of Krith's beast lying sprawled, stretched like a crushed winged lizard in a great wrack of legs tangled and wings askew. Alighting on the ground, his beast looked at its dead brother and for a moment took thought of their bond. Then after a touch of approval from its master, the creature dipped its head to its mangled fellow and tore off a mouthful of foul-smelling flesh.

Chuckling at the joyous feeding sounds of the beast, Skri dismounted and walked towards Krith. He skirted the feeding reptilian, avoiding the bloody juices that dripped down from the corners of the odorous creature's mouth as it exuberantly feasted.

"Fine animal," Skri commented.

Krith, who had been sitting upon the ground, rose to his feet at the appearance of Skri. "As good as any, I suppose," he said, not too pleasantly. "At least it is still alive; not like mine."

"You do not seem overly glad to see me, Lord Krith, and I did spend quite a bit of time looking for you. You were quite difficult to find."

"Perhaps the search was challenging only because you did not wish to find me," Krith growled belligerently.

"You are in a foul mood today, my lord Krith! You have had poor fortune, but do not be so churlish and vent your wrath upon me. Now, salvage anything that you need from your saddlebags and let us be away," Skri said good-naturedly.

"Perhaps I should have walked back," he muttered as he strode past Skri's beast. After unfastening the saddle bags on his dead mount, Krith retrieved a throwing dagger and pushed it under his belt. Removing two wineskins hanging down from his saddle pommel, he threw them over his shoulder and turned back to Skri.

"Perhaps you should have hazarded the journey on foot, but since I have gone to all this trouble to find you, you might as well ride back with me. Now get on," Skri said, becoming slightly irritated, as he walked over to his beast and mounted the saddle.

Growling, Krith climbed up behind him. "None of you - that clever group who fancies themselves so close to the King - would ever on your own volition spend one second in time searching for me when I needed help."

"Life is full of surprises," Skri said with a slight smirk. "I can relish your erudite observations as we enjoy the ride."

"I would enjoy nothing with you," Krith hissed contemptuously. "Not even a good kill! You know how I enjoy slaying, but I consider you no brother of mine with whom I will hunt! Should you offer me a draught of blood from the skull of an enemy, which had been lined in gold and crafted for a cup, I would decline it! All I want is to be as far away from you as I can be!"

"Friendly today, are you not? Tell your troubles to Khamûl." Skri knew that Krith would take this as an insult, a taunt. The Eighth felt justified. "I am sure he would understand. You two are so... close. But why do you waste time today bringing up old grudges?"

"When you are by yourself as I most usually am, that is all there is of which to think!"

"You have your friends. You always preferred them anyway," Skri said, riding easily in the saddle.

"I do not keep company willingly with malcontents!"

"So eager you were," Skri thought bitterly, "to betray us all. But ever do you court the Morgul Lord's favor now, hypocrite!"

"I doubt they hold you in any higher esteem than we do, Krith, no matter what they make you believe. But since you prefer to be used by anyone, I assume that you are satisfied in being what you are."

"You bastard," Krith muttered. "Skri the Righteous," he thought to himself with a silent sarcastic laugh. "Ever fawning upon the Captain instead of our rightful Master, I enjoy seeing you brought low and forced to submit... like the others."

"Settle your nerves, my lord," Skri said politely. "The beast has a way of rapidly soaring into the air, and then diving in a twisting, dizzying descent. And sometimes-"

The beast suddenly rose almost straight up into the air and Krith shrieked as he felt himself sliding backwards along the flying reptile's knobby spine. Frantically he grabbed the cantle of the saddle and held on tightly. Before he could curse again, the beast had twisted in the air and was plunging downward, the ground coming up at an alarming rate. Krith slid forwards, his head hitting Skri in the back.

"Sometimes the beast does this when it is least expected," Skri chortled as the creature almost crashed into the ground but then caught itself, gliding, and then swooped up again. Krith was taken by surprise at the sudden change in direction, and momentarily distracted, he shrieked and cursed.

"Stop this!" cried Krith, desperately holding onto the back of the saddle and cautiously looking sideways down at the ground.

"You have to be most careful then, my lord, lest you have a rude tumble," Skri smirked after he had brought the beast up and set it upon a smooth, even course.

"That was deliberate!" Krith hissed after he had righted himself behind the saddle. "You calculated that to make me look foolish!"

"Nay," Skri said innocently, "perhaps the beast perceived some foe upon the ground who meant us ill, and he was merely attempting to evade an arrow."

"Skri, do not try to mock me!"

"Perhaps then, Krith, silence would be better."

A snarl was Krith's only response.

Long had Skri and Krith been enemies, harboring personal grudges against the other. These old enmities dated back to their days in Rhûn, even before they had been given their Rings. Their hatred for each other had never been resolved, and the hostility had only worsened once they had been given their Gifts.

In all ways they despised each other, both personal and political. Sometimes their fury would be kindled savagely against the other, and if allowed, they would try to destroy the other with magickal spells, thunderings and wrath. The Morgul Lord kept them in check, and there was always the threat of being sent to the Punishment Rooms of the Nazgûl, where they could reflect for long days upon their misdeeds. Then, too, the Dark Lord, while enjoying their internal strifes, never would allow them to get too far out of control, and the menace of that, more than anything, kept them manageable.

Krith and Skri did not speak as their beasts flew back to join the others. Skri thought it was foul luck indeed that he had been the one sent to search for the Ninth.

"Pompous petty overlord, who thought his family was so high, though his grandfather was little more than a cow herder!" the Ninth fumed silently. "Your family aspired too high, claiming that their growing power equated them with nobility, and looked down upon my family because we were still only lowly herdsmen!

"When your sire and I at last parted ways, I set off on my own. You did not think yourselves so great when you found that my men and I had raided your herds and pillaged your tents!"

The two rival warlords, Skri and Krith - though they had names in those days, not mere numbers to denote their existence - warred with each other for years, fighting each other's men back and forth across the steppes of northern Rhûn. Each one's forces had raided the other lord's cities, dwellings and tents, horse and cattle herds and wains.

Once Krith's men had attacked one of Skri's small villages, filled the wells with rocks and sand, and polluted their waters with the dung of both themselves and their horses. Skri had retaliated against Krith's main city, destroyed their wells, stolen his enemy's wife and her female bodyguards, and made them all his concubines. Krith had gotten his revenge the next year by raiding Skri's tent settlement, stealing the women back and taking some of Skri's female warriors and giving them to his lords.

"Then years later when my men and I bested yours in battle, you and your family did not think yourselves so mighty and royal then. Though it was in my rights to do so by the custom of the land, I did not disgrace you publicly by wresting you down to the ground and placing my foot upon the back of your wretched neck!

"You did not show me the same courtesy, though, when you took me prisoner the next year! That is what comes from showing mercy. Always a fool's choice!" Krith railed on, seething in silence at old grievances best forgotten.

Time passed and there was constant war and raiding between the people of the Lords Krith and Skri. Then there arose to the east of them across the mountains a mighty people not of their race, whose overlord was vicious and savage. In this mighty lord's unceasing march to the west, he threatened the lands of both Krith and Skri.

Neither Krith nor Skri was strong enough to defeat this great lord's forces alone, and each brooded upon the best course of action. It was Skri who proposed a meeting between the two rival lords to judge how they might best unite against the common enemy. At the council, Skri, Krith and their lords decided to forget all past animosity and join together to drive their foe back across the Eastern Mountains from whence they came. In this they were successful. It would be long years before the enemy forgot their disastrous defeat, and the vanquished foe was too fearful to cross the mountains for many years.

The victory of the united troops of Skri and Krith was so brilliantly decisive and executed with such perfect military precision, that the word of the fame of Krith and Skri spread out over the lands, until at last other ears heard of their deeds.

i"Two mighty kings have arisen in the North and have defeated the Golden Lord?" the elflike Being asked speculatively as He reached down to a table and with long, tapering fingers picked up a grape and placed it in His mouth.

"Aye, Sublimity. These particular agents and spies are quite noted for reliability."

"I shall look into this matter... you are dismissed to receive your reward," the handsome auburn-manéd figure calculated as He irritably tossed a lock of His golden-red hair over His well-muscled shoulder. He scowled petulantly as the rapturously beautiful creature beside Him on the couch reached out to stroke a wayward lock of hair that had strayed over one of His eyes.

Her feelings hurt, she moved her voluptuous body slightly away from His. "Oh, Annatar," the glorious creature whimpered, "even one sour look from You will crush me to the soul."

"Leave Me," He snarled as He flung her off the couch, sending her sprawling to her knees. "You have waxed tedious. I must plan, and I do not wish to hear your simpering gasps of love tonight."/i

These two lords, now grown strong after their victory, could pose a great threat to Him. The increasing incursions of the Númenóreans to the land and their constant pushing of Annatar's forces inland away from the coasts was a sore dilemma. Still smarting from His defeat in Eregion, the Maia felt He could little afford any more strong enemies.

Even though the ancestors of many of these Northern people had fought under the banner of Melkor, their loyalty was as wavering as the shifting sands of the sea. Their hearts did not truly belong to Him. Instead, they worshiped many gods, some worshiping beasts, men and women and the forces of nature. Others took to their adoration corruptions of the Valar, though they knew naught of the nature of the Powers. A few took to their hearts the ancient lore of the Avari, while others worshipped the Dark Elves themselves. There were those who believed in the cult of their ancestors, while others even developed zeal for Nahar, the steed of Oromë, and so they, while forgetting the source of their worship, began to worship the beast itself.

iThough the peoples were as perfidious as a knife in the darkness, ways could, perhaps, be found to win the allegiance of their lords to Him... forever./i

A kindly old man visited Krith a few months after his victory and bowed upon his knees before him. The venerable elder stated that he was a metalworker and had crafted a gift for the savior of the East - a golden ring set with a deep red garnet. As a token of deep respect and gratitude for saving the land from pillage and rape at the hands of the hordes to the Far East, the old man presented Krith with this symbol of his admiration. Krith had been delighted with the beauty of the gift.

Before the old sage left Krith, he gave him this advice: "You know in what high esteem I hold you. Pray indulge me as I offer you this piece of advice: Do not think to make a pact with your comrade-in-arms, nor engage with him in horse-trading, nor give him one of your daughters to wed, for he is altogether untrustworthy. He would bring bad days upon you and your house. You would do best to set him back upon his heels before he can do you mischief."

Krith pondered upon the words and considering the past enmity between himself and Skri, he thought perhaps the old man was right. The only question now would be where would be the best place to launch his first strike against his enemy.

A few days after the wise old man had visited Krith, a youth with brave and steadfast mien visited the hall of Skri. He begged the lord to account him as one of his fighting men. Skri, moved by the young man's sincerity, accepted him as one of the knights of his house. As time passed, the young man impressed Skri with wisdom seldom seen in one so young.

Skri's men had been hunting when the news had come to them that new hostilities had broken out on the border between the two warring clans. Within a short time, Skri and his lords were back at his hall planning their counter attack against Krith's forces. The young man had fallen pensive in front of the fire. When questioned as to why his mood was so solemn, the young man looked at Skri with tears in his eyes.

"I have had a premonition," the youth said. "The hand of death is upon me, and I shall not come back from this raid."

Feeling that the young man was experiencing a case of battle nerves, often common before a man's first real fight, Skri did not take the youth's premonition seriously. Skri, though, being a kind man to a certain degree, humored him.

"My lord," the young man had said, "please take this ring into your safe keeping. This is a dear keepsake to me, a memento of my house, of which I am the last who yet lives. It was given to me by my dear grandmother when I reached my majority. Take it. I place it into your hands. Should I perish, I would like for you to have it and wear it. When you look at it, think of me."

The battle had gone poorly for Skri, and his men had been sorely bested in the fray. The fighting had been filled with countless mistakes of judgment, and many of Skri's men had been lost. Skri had wept great, hot tears when he looked down at the dead face of the youth, who had been pierced through the heart and was hanging, impaled upon the trunk of a great tree.

Sorrowfully, the dead were borne back to Skri's hall. As he rode to the small city that was named for him, Skri thought of the young man. When he reached his home, he took out the ring, a pale green cat's eye chyroberyl set in gold, and looked at it with sadness. He vowed upon the band two oaths that day. The first was that he would wear the ring always in remembrance of the brave youth who had loved him so well, and the second was that he would have vengeance upon Krith for his unprovoked attacks.

With great alarm, Krith received word one day that Skri's men had fallen upon his outer territories and had destroyed all the villages there. Krith declared war on Skri, and both camps were in open combat.

When the two forces met across a vast stretch of steppes, the battle had raged on, but Skri's men proved victorious. As Krith made an attempt to escape with his guard, he was captured. Their hands bound behind their backs, ropes about their necks, Krith and his men were paraded through the streets of Skri's main city.

Then, in Skri's hall of wood, Krith had been untied, and Skri had wrestled him to the floor and placed his boot upon his neck, the symbol of a vanquished foe. Krith's face had blushed red with shame as he lay upon the floor and Skri's men had laughed at him. Upon pain of death, Krith had been forced to swear an oath of loyalty and subservience to Skri. Skri had felt that this humiliation was warranted because of the unprovoked attack that had led to the slaughter of the noble young man who had now been avenged.

Over the years, Skri and Krith provided Gorthaur with boundless mirth. Never would either of them know that Sauron had gone to both of them in disguise - once as an old man and then in the pelt of a young man whom Sauron had slain in the wastelands. The Dark Lord always remembered the day when they had both been called to Barad-dûr. The amazed expressions upon their faces had been sublimely humorous to Sauron.

***

Ultimately Sauron had deceived nine lords of Middle-earth, including three Númenóreans, who gave Him both their allegiance and that of their countries. Through their influence, they swayed many to Gorthaur's side.

The Ring of Power upon His finger, He controlled them all, but felt it unnecessary to pay much heed to them. Why should He bother? They were at His beck and call whenever He needed them and so He had held them with a not-too-tight rein. Sauron had been far more worried about the Númenóreans and their steady encroachment into His lands.

Finally, Ar-Pharazôn had come with a great force to Middle-earth, desiring to exploit the whole of the land, bring its riches to Númenor, and claim the earth for their own. Sauron's servants had fled in fear of this massive host. Where war failed, diplomacy prevailed. Sauron appealed to Ar-Pharazôn's clemency, and in all good faith He had been taken to Númenor as a vouchsafe for His lands and His forces. He went to Númenor as a captive, and later, by His guile and cunning words, became Ar-Pharazôn's chief advisor.

In the year 3319 of the Second Age, the isle of Númenor sank beneath the waves forever. The fury of Eru Ilúvatar had been kindled by the presumption of Ar-Pharazôn in thinking that he could overcome Valinor itself. After that unpleasantness, Sauron had been forced to return to Middle-earth, no longer able to take a fair form, His visage forever changed to that of a dark and ominous lord.

Unfortunately for Sauron, a number of the Númenóreans had escaped the final downfall of the island. They, in their petty arrogance, had the effrontery to make their way to Middle-earth, settling contemptuously quite near to Sauron's own lands, which they desired for their own.

Finally had come the seven-year Siege of Barad-dûr during the War of the Last Alliance. The siege had culminated in the fierce battle in which Sauron had fallen, rendered impotent, His Ring severed from His hand. Barad-dûr was destroyed by the enemy, and the Nazgûl retreated into the shadows, each going wherever he wished.

***

After the fall of the Dark Lord and His Tower, Skri had returned to the land of his birth, Rhûn. He was still of great power, for he was a sorcerer in his own right. There were riches, too, that he had laid up, which he felt he had earned for himself. He dwelt among the people who were his kin. Skri had gained steadily in power, and drew to him men who wished to serve him. He had dwelt among them, his identity hidden from others by spells or by disguises.

Krith had fled with Khamûl and Zagbolg to lands further South towards Ninwi, and Krith was no longer a threat. Still, Skri bought mercenaries to defend his territory. He was determined to gain back all he had lost when he had been first called to Barad-dûr. He was never certain that Krith might not come back and strive with him again to gain the territory that he once held. He feared that the powers of Khamûl and Zagbolg would join with those of Krith, and his old enemy would get his revenge.

After Skri had gained the aid of the mercenaries, he led them to conquer a rival chieftain. Still, Skri had held what he had gained by his own sword, his own might and his own will. He had always felt, though perhaps he did not hold so true those principles of justice and honor as he once had, that he had ruled wisely and well.

Krith, Zagbolg and Khamûl never came to challenge him, and sometimes Skri almost regretted that they did not. He felt his domain was strong enough to fend against even the three of them joined and all the forces they could summon. He so powerful that no one challenged him and his territory became one of peace. He found himself becoming settled in a bucolic life and enjoying it.

Those were the days to which he liked to look back, those days after he had risen once again as chief of many tribes, and peace for a time ruled. He had caused a city with houses of wood and stone to be built. There he had resided with his council, his wife, his riches and his gardens, his acrobats, his jugglers, bards and minstrels, jesters and dwarves, and had been at peace as much as he could be with himself and the world.

***

The Witch-king had been safe in his own kingdom in the North. Then at last he had been bested, driven away by the invaders from the South and their allies, the damned Elves, and the little creatures, the archers with their small but deadly bows, so well used at close range. None of the others had been able to come to his aid, though some had wished. The power of Dol Guldur was far too great for their forces to face, and Sauron had blocked all the passes into Eriador.

By year 1980 of the Third Age, Skri ruled most, if not all, of the lands he had once held when he was a mortal king. Skri's days in the east came to an end when his Captain invited him and the rest to Mordor. It was not too long after that when the Dark Captain laid siege on Minas Ithil. Two years later, the City was theirs, the palantír captured and in the hands of the Witch-king. At last, the wraiths had a city of their own.

Once in Minas Ithil, the Nine Lords did not come out of the city for almost a thousand years... at least not openly.

**NOTES**

Much thanks and gratitude to Aganuzîr for the invaluable assistance on Chapters 36 to 40. Many of the concepts in these chapters are based on ideas originally formulated by Aganuzîr. Thanks again for your help on this challenging /br /All of the material in these chapters fit in with Tolkien's Tale of Years in Appendix B of The Return of the King.


	38. Those Doomed to Love

Chapter Written by Angmar

After they had taken the city that would be renamed Minas Morgul, the Nazgûl dwelt there with little interference or conflict. They had enjoyed their relative solitude, drinking and feasting throughout the idle days and nights. Serenaded by troubadours who sang of wars and battles and brave deeds and loves and trysts of joining and dividing, of sundering and tears, they were surrounded by servants and sycophants, lovers and mistresses. Upon occasion, they would call for the dancers, the maids of sultry fire and beauty whose only desire was to please them and whose reward was entangling arms and legs and the sweetness of willing seduction.

Maids, mistresses and lovers were won and lost on a single throw of the bones, and they reveled and great were their appetites. The Nine, sated in every conceivable desire, mixed their sorceries with their cravings for the flesh. Sometimes, when the moon was at its darkest, the dancers, amidst swirling veils, yielded their flesh to the bite of the sword as they performed the Dance of Blood and Death and other such dances of pain and pleasure. It was at those times that the carnal passions of the Úlairi were at their height. The blood flowed freely and each one of the Nine licked sweet drops from the bodies of the dancers, and both passions and power rose and swelled. The maids would plead for the attentive hands and lips of the Nine and often swooned in religious ecstasy as they were held in the arms of their sorcerer lovers. The maids considered this merely as an act of love, and they were loved in return. Though no one really knew the full reality of what went on in Minas Morgul, the rumor would grow up in later years that the city was as wicked indeed as ever was Bablon of the East.

Then upon the time of the longest night when their power was at its height, a procession of Nine would chant as they wound their way up the stairs of the Tower of the Moon. A steel crown upon his head, a medallion of mithril about his neck and clad in a stately robe of darkest blue embroidered with arcane symbols in glittering threads of silver, white and icy azure, their King would lead his brethren to the topmost level of the Tower. There, whilst the shimmering turret slowly rotated in its splendor of beauty, the blood would be combined with potions in secret rituals. They would weave great spells using the combined power of all their Rings, commanding the weather in the Morgul Vale and the growth of the strange plants which flowered in the meads and grew upon the sides of the hills. Until the sun called a halt to the night, the brothers would grow in power and increase in might, rejoicing in the darkness which was their strength.

Secret peace treaties with the enemy across the River guaranteed their security. Seldom was there a peep of complaint from the Númenórean descendants, for there was peace and plenty and all was deemed as well. The Steward who was known as "The Good" had judged it wise to sue for peace quietly and covertly. After all, he was rid of a brash and arrogant king whose policies had never proved wise, the man himself being reckless and impetuous. Most importantly there was no war, and who would not give all for peace? Those who occupied the city of Minas Morgul were quiet and never troublesome, as long as the tribute money made its way across the river on time. This pact was a closely guarded secret among the Stewards for many years.

Little would the Gondorians in Ithilien and across the River, slumbering in their beds, ever know what those deathly quiet halls held. Indeed, as they said, the place was one of wickedness, lechery, drinking, and sins pleasurable and sensuous. If the stodgy Gondorians had known, their senses would have boiled with righteous indignation, but perhaps in the very darkest part of their hearts, they would have felt a pang of envy.

Often the Nine would steal quietly out of their valley and meet with the women of Ithilien, or venture farther south into Harad on surreptitious quests of romantic errantry. Sometimes they would even secretly cross the Anduin in disguise, seeking winsome females who could provide pleasant companionship for a while. Even invisibility could be hidden by a show of will, and the Nine were masters at deceiving the senses.

Perhaps it was dangerous to venture so far, but all had gone well except for a few misadventures. Once, Udu and Rut, who were always becoming besmitten with one comely lass or another, had been surprised by a returning husband when they had both been dallying with his wife. Startled at the angry husband's approach, they had been forced to leave suddenly. Barely gathering up his sword, boots, breeches and tunic in time, Rut had gone out the window while Udu had the lesser of good fortune. He had been forced to flee out the window wearing nothing but his sword, belt and boots.

Besotted and staggering, Udu was not able to control the spells that would deceive mortals' minds and make him appear visible. Rut had tried to persuade him to be quiet, but Udu insisted upon singing an outrageous song about an inept young lord's wedding night. While Udu collapsed under the roof of a shed, Rut had stolen enough garments from a clothesline so that Udu could hide his unclad form. Tales of a "ghost of a drunken sailor" were told by the people of Southern Gondor for many years after that.

Many were the stories that were told of their exploits and misadventures. Udu always seemed to have all the bad luck. Partly this was true because he had a great fondness both for a pretty face and partly because of his tendency to carry a few flasks of Dushûrz-Gabhîk everywhere he went.

Rut had been occupied on one side of a haystack with a sprightly Gondorian wench, while Udu had been romancing her rambunctious sister on the other side. Rut had been barely able to suppress his exclamations of joy and grunts of pleasure while riding his lusty companion.

Udu had just been grasping the nipples of the buxom wench under him, and, in between gasps, telling her about the great beauty of her eyes. Her name was Nóruien, but Udu was besotted upon too much Dushûrz. He made the mistake of calling her "Galuwen," the name of her sister with whom Rut was currently frolicking. Udu was surprised when she had exhibited the effrontery to slap his face and struggle out from under his weight. The embarrassment bothered him but little for he passed out, unable to fight the influence of the wine any longer. He could not remember if he had chanted the spell necessary for her protection, but he thought that it was of little consequence in any event.

Though there was little physical peril in these ventures, there was great peril to the heart. Unfortunately, Udu fell in love. When he was sure that his interests had passed from those merely of lust to genuine affection, the rest of his brethren had to bear with his sighings and moanings. He kept complaining that he was "dying of unrequited love," and that the woman was the "great love of his life." His wailings were magnified by the great quantities of wine which he drank to help him "forget his pain," as he called it.

He had asked permission of the Captain that he might go forth once again across the River and bring her back to dwell with him in the City of Minas Morgul. At first, he was denied his boon, but when he fell into a fit of mourning and weeping for the wench, the Morgul Lord had at last relented and gave him leave to go. All felt relieved, however, that at least she was neither the wife nor the kinswoman of the Steward. There was, after all, the secret peace treaty to remember.

Udu had been jubilant when he brought her back. He was happy with her for a long while until he became too drunk upon Dushûrz-Gabhîk and made the mistake of wagering her in a game of chance. To his grief, he lost her to Krakfakhthal. Krak soon grown tired of her, saying that while she was lusty in bed, she was quite a shrew the rest of the time. Then he had traded her to Krith for a new steed. Krak had joked with Khamûl that he had "traded a nag for a nag" but that he had gotten the better part of the deal.

The Morgul Lord himself had not been immune to such cravings. Though he claimed that the tale was untrue, totally false, it was even said that he had bedded the famously beautiful and delicious wife of a Gondorian noble, "right under his nose." The others, though, never knew even a fraction of the truth, for it was not merely the wife of one nobleman, but the wives of many.

Eventually, the woman upon whom he frequently called had been found out by her husband. Discovery was inevitable. After her husband had returned home unexpectedly from a trip and summoned her to his chambers, she had been reluctant to part her garments for him. One look at the bruises and marks of love upon her body told him all he needed to know.

"You have taken a lover!" he had bellowed. "Who is he so that I may slay him, for he has insulted my honor and violated the sanctity of the marriage bed!" She claimed, tearful and pleading, that she had "been seduced in her sleep by a demon who came to her in her dreams."

This seemed to be a reoccurring problem in Gondor, the land where the men spent their days reading old genealogies, searching for ways to live forever, and instructing architects upon the construction of magnificent tombs, while the women spent lonely hours pining for love and affection from husbands who seldom called them to their chambers. It was little wonder that the birthrate kept constantly declining, though the dearth of population could never be blamed upon the Nine black knights from across the River, for they inadvertently did all in their power to ensure fertility.

The lady's husband, a stern lord, refused to believe her. He vowed to punish her and denied her his company. He made certain, however, that the episode would never be repeated when he locked a chastity belt about her waist and betwixt her thighs.

That, however, was no problem for Angmar, for he knew all the spells of unlocking and locking. Then after the iron belt was removed from her body, the Morgul Lord bedded and bucked her and was gone before the light of day. Ever after when her lord was away on long journeys, the woman would leave three candles burning in her window, a signal that her husband was gone.

Some months had passed when Angmar, riding by, saw the pre-arranged signal and stopped at the keep. The lady had been distraught, for she had pined many lonely hours for him. After only a short while, the belt locked about her middle was unbound and she was comforted, as only the Morgul Lord could comfort her.

The next morning, she had begged him to take her with him and free her from her stern husband's rule. Great was her distress, for she had determined that she was with child and was sure it was Angmar's. He told her that he thought that such a circumstance was highly unlikely, though he did not bother to tell her that the same thing had been claimed endless times before by other women.

In his mind, though, the King never quite ruled out the possibility that all those numerous bastards were indeed his, but whatever the case, he would never claim them. When daylight was close, he felt perhaps it would be best for him to leave. After kissing her lips and disentangling her arms and legs from about his body, he had placed the chastity belt back around her body, left her bed chambers and quickly rode away.

He did not return across the Anduin until some months later, and chancing by her bower, he saw the telltale glow of three lights in her window. Although he had rather enjoyed the challenge of unlocking her belt through the power of his mind, he found that she was no longer weighted down with its burden. She had rushed to greet him, and in delight told him that just the month before she had been delivered of a fine son.

The Morgul Lord had been using potent spells to deceive the woman by casting images into her mind that he was a handsome Gondorian. He was pleasantly amused when the lady told him that the child "looks exactly like you, even unto your eyes." He extracted herself from her imploring arms, and told her there was nothing unusual in that, for did her husband not have the same features?

"No, the babe is yours; he is yours!" the woman had exclaimed. When she explained to him that she had not lain with her husband in months, he had to agree, somewhat abashed, that perhaps there was some veracity in what she had said. He could never take her and the child with him, though, he said, not untruthfully, that "my family has fallen upon lean times." Then, after explaining that she and her son would be much better off to remain in Gondor with her husband - and certainly he would come back to see her as often as he could - he had made love to her again and then went quietly into the night.

For years, he visited the woman frequently and without detection by her husband. As time passed, Angmar began to take note of her two young daughters as they grew and flourished into lovely young maidens. Then, unknown to their mother or to the other sister, there was oft waiting in the windows of all three of them, the woman and her two daughters, the burning glow of three candles.

In time, the mother became suspicious at the nocturnal gasps and squeals of delight which she first heard coming from the younger daughter's room one night and then from the elder's the next. The dame guessed what was afoot and vowed vengeance.

Then came the night when she heard once again the passionate sighings and moanings emanating from her younger daughter's room. Since the mother had the keys to all rooms in the house on the large ring at her belt, she unlocked the door to the room of her daughter. Angmar had both sensed and smelled her approach, but he had little time before she barged through the door and caught them in the very act. Such a fit of hissing and screaming he had seldom heard in all his days. He had quickly and discreetly gathered up his clothes and left while mother and daughter were screeching and screaming at each other, trying to pull out the other's hair and claw out her eyes.

He considered that, perhaps, it would be best never to test the romantic waters again, but one night when he was returning from the home of another lord's wife, he saw the fondly remembered three candles burning in the mother's window. He had smiled to himself as he entered the house.

When he opened the door to the lady's room, he found a trap waiting for him, for the woman's husband and a number of his friends sprang out upon him, brandishing clubs, axes, knives, spears, swords and daggers. They attempted to slay him, but it was a simple matter for him to fight them all off. And so, just as he had at Fornost, the Witch-king of Angmar made a speedy retreat once again into the darkness.

The lord had become alerted to what was going on when the older sister, jealous of her mother and younger sister, had betrayed the whole thing to her father, falling tearfully to his feet and vowing to reform. The nobleman felt compelled to mention to some of his friends with marriageable sons that he would not be adverse to marriages with his daughters. After they were wed, he graciously forgave both daughters. His wife, though, he never quite forgave, and he was never really certain of the paternity of his only son.

Angmar, of course, was not overly concerned about the woman or her daughters. By the time of the ambush, he had already found another far more comely and certainly more pleasant than any of them. Over the years, there were amorous adventures aplenty, and many were the women who were eager to share their company with the Nazgûl.

***

Skri had taken little note of the others' amorous pursuits until at last Udu and Rut persuaded him to go with them on a sortie into Gondor, "just for the scenery," they had told Skri. It had all been very secretive and they thought they were taking little risk. They were faulty in their judgment, though, for the risk was far greater than they had thought.

They had met three young women, quite fair, pleasing, charming and graceful, walking near Pelargir in the twilight of a mild summer's day. Hailing the blithe young ladies, they found that two of the females succumbed quickly to their advances, for the Nazgûl had disguised themselves by spells and magicks as handsome young men. One lass, though, resisted and flounced away, disgusted at her friends.

Skri, impressed by her beauty, had followed her quietly, but she had tried to ignore him and walked faster. At first, he had merely sought to talk with her, not having the company of females for so long. Soon he found, though, that his heart filled with desire for her. She rejected him and he, deciding that he must have her there and then, put upon her a spell that made her vulnerable to his wooing.

While Udu and Rut were occupied with the other willing maids who would soon be maids no longer, Skri entertained his chosen one first with his flute and then with the tender touches of his long fingers. Skri was surprised with himself, for he had never considered himself as a lover. He found he was soon amazing himself when the girl looked up at him with begging eyes. What else was he to do? He had her beneath the cedars and then he felt his heart "pierced with the very arrow of love." It was indeed fitting that even after the spell was removed from her, the girl felt the same way. He promised her that as soon he could, he would come back, even promising marriage, which he felt in his mind that he had a right to do.

A week later, she fled in the night with him, leaving a note behind that she had eloped with a sailor whom she had met. Her father and mother were both in tears, but since the girl swore she was going to be wed, they felt perhaps she would be back someday. She never returned, though, and lived with Skri for many years, happy and content.

When at last his spells could no longer preserve her, she had died and he was left forlorn. He had carried her body to the heart of the mountain, where she lay locked in the eternal preservation of death, sleeping forever upon a slab of pale marble. There she lay, timelessly beautiful, her stone near to the slabs of the other women who were dear to the Nazgûl, lovely in life, forever lovely in death.

Ever Skri mourned for her and ever he made pilgrimages up the mountain. Thus grew up the tales among his brethren that Skri would serenade his love with his flute and then lie with her cold, dead, enchanted body.

And so the Nine abided, knowing all too soon that the end grew close and bitter with each passing day. They knew that death would not touch them, for each one wore his Ring upon his finger, but there were far worse things than death. They knew that somewhere the Dark Power still lurked, biding His time, growing in power, and seeking to devour them all. Still they made merry and loved and were loved, thinking only of the moment and living in dread of the future.

**NOTES**

Much thanks and gratitude to Aganuzîr for the invaluable assistance on Chapters 36 to 40. Many of the concepts in these chapters are based on ideas originally formulated by Aganuzîr. Thanks again for your help on this challenging /br /All of the material in these chapters fit in with Tolkien's Tale of Years in Appendix B of The Return of the King.


	39. And He Gathered Them Unto Himself

Chapter Written by Angmar

No seer had ever predicted the strange coincidences that were set in motion when three men and their followers launched ships to escape the calamity that had befallen their land. As they returned, so did Another, but His form was unseen. Strange it was that when Sauron fled to Middle-earth after the sinking of Númenor in the Second Age, He and the Númenórean refugees landed at approximately the same time.

The Sea-kings, obviously as greedy for spoil and gain as they had ever been, found Gorthaur's lands quite fair, and Isildur set out to build his capital on some prime land which he named Ithilien, the Land of the Moon. The Númenóreans crowed over what they perceived as a fallen foe, but the Dark Lord, though weakened and no longer able to assume a fair form, had hardly been rendered impotent. It was one hundred and ten years later that Gorthaur finished mustering His forces and sought out to regain His lost territories. The dark armies were successful in conquering Minas Ithil, and the anger of the Gondorians at the loss of their ill-gotten city prompted the War of the Last Alliance.

When Sauron had been toppled, His Ring wrested from Him at the end of the war, many had believed that at last Middle-earth was rid of the Great Evil. Isildur had cut the Ring from Gorthaur's hand, but later he was killed near the Gladden Fields, and knowledge of the Ring was gradually lost. To most people, the tale had become only a half-remembered legend and the truth was known by just a few learned lore masters.

There were Nine who had rejoiced in Sauron's defeat, for at last, they thought, they were free of His tyranny. After the downfall of their Master, some of their number journeyed to deserts of the South; others to the broad river plains of the East; and a few went to the steppes of the North. Many returned to the lands which they had ruled when they were great lords of the earth. There were three, though, who had no land to which they could ever return, for that land had perished beneath the waves. Númenor lived only in flickering visions which filled them with longing, though they could remember only faded images of a vague land.

The one who held the Ring of greatest power - he who would become known in later years as the Witch-king of Angmar - eventually made his way to the north of Eriador. There he founded a kingdom, and was its ruler for hundreds of years. None would ever know his identity until near the end of his reign, for he had his Ring and his powers of disguise were great. He was regarded as a mortal king by the kingdoms of his close enemies - Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur, the latter finally allying itself with the king of Angmar.

At last, his foes had crumbled from the stress of their own petty wars among themselves and the wars with Angmar. Fornost, the capital of Arthedain, fell to the Witch-king's host, and King Arvedui fled for his life. The triumph was not to last long, though, for the next year, Eärnur, Prince of Gondor, brought a fleet from the South Kingdom. Then allied with Elves and others, they overcame the Angmarian army and forced its king to flee.

Though denied his kingdom in the North, the Witch-king was still strong. He gathered up the survivors of Angmar - the remnants of his defeated army and the civilians who would go - and traveled east on a long and arduous route north of the Gray Mountains, going due east until they passed the Iron Hills. Then they traveled south through Rhûn and at last five years later those who had been strong and brave enough to endure the journey entered Mordor through the eastern passages by way of Nurn.

There the Witch-king lingered for twenty more years, making plans and preparations. He sent summons out to his brothers and invited them to join him in gaining revenge upon his old enemy. If he were successful, and he was confident that he would be, the Nazgûl would gain a realm of their own.

After gathering his forces, the Black Captain besieged Minas Ithil for two years until at last the fortress fell. Establishing the place as a bastion, he spread his influence even unto the land across the River. The Nazgûl acknowledged him as their lord and listened to his counsel, for they both feared him and thought him wise.

He sent out emissaries to the East and the South and the North offering gold in pay for the services of those who would ally themselves with him. Thus he was able to gain a force of men to man his fortress. As it became known in these lands that the Morgul Lord was generous with his gold and silver, many came to serve under his banner. Adventurers, vagabonds, those who had fallen into disfavor in their own lands, those who sought fortune, and even slaves who had escaped from their masters - all found a safe harbor in Minas Morgul.

Bewitched by the stories that they had heard of the charm and fabled romantic prowess of the Nazgûl - as well as the promise of plentiful gold and silver in the splendid city - some women and maidens came willingly to his land. Maids blushed and giggled as they talked of what it would be like to lie with a sorcerer as a lover. Their prosaic lives were left behind, for they desired the sensual magic that only the dark knights could create.

Bravery seemed to have died in Gondor, the people falling into sloth and corruption. The Western watch on boundaries of Mordor had been virtually abandoned since the Great Plague in 1640, and one by one the guard towers fell - Carchost, Narchost, Durthang and Cirith Ungol. After the conquest of Minas Ithil, none of the men of Gondor dared try to take Isildur's city back. Never was so much as an expeditionary force ever launched to free the fortress, so the two cities sat facing each other with only fifty miles and the Anduin to separate them.

In forty-eight years, only one man and his escort dared to cross the River and confront the Nazgûl, and that was only to answer a personal challenge. He was the foolhardy and ill-fated King Eärnur, and he was swiftly dealt with in the only fashion in which he could be. To Minas Tirith he never returned. No great army was sent to retrieve their king in valiant battles. No great ransoms were offered for his safe return. None vowed to avenge his memory, and some wondered if anyone ever missed the vanished king. But there was peace, and that was all that mattered.

Yet the Nazgûl were not wholly trustful of this peace, for the Númenóreans had always proven themselves lustful in their thirst for world colonization and domination. It was for this reason that the Nine took special care in guarding their valley in the Third Age. In case the Gondorians did regain the famed reckless valor of the past, the Nine Lords made sure that they were prepared to fend off any attack from the Gondorians... and maybe even defeat their own Master should He ever attack. Great defenses of magic, power dread and dark, they set about their tower and its environs to guard against intruders. They cast enchantments upon the River Morgulduin downstream from their castle, and laid deceptive mists and fogs upon the sweet waters to the north.

The Nazgûl did not willingly seek war, but sometimes it was necessary when the Gondorians were lax in delivering the tribute coffers required by the secret peace treaties. Such was the case in the Morgul War of 2475 when a force of Black Uruks - prime specimens of the selected breeding programs of Minas Morgul - were unleashed upon Ithilien. Osgiliath was taken and the bridge was broken.

Boromir I, the son of the Steward, thought he might hazard to do great deeds which would earn him a place in the books of lore for the rest of history, and so he came out against the Morgul Lord. He paid for that folly with a wound from the Morgul-blade, which shortened his life considerably. The Steward decided that it was best to hold to the long-honored secret treaties, and so the force of Minas Morgul feigned retreat, taking the long overdue tribute coffers with them. There were other incidents in which the Gondorians were niggardly in their payments, and once again the Black Uruks of Minas Morgul poured out from the city and assailed Ithilien.

For almost a thousand years, Minas Morgul was regarded as a place of great fear, and the city became a source of dark rumor and tale which both chilled the blood and intrigued the curious. Not even the rangers and spies who still lurked in the woods dared cross east of the road or wander into the dark hollows and ravines of the Mountains of Shadow. There were a few, though, rebellious dissidents and those of the gentler sex, who dared to brave the enchantments which hung about the valley and the City of the Dead. When these fair ones, lured by the hopes of love and gold, were granted safe passage, they found the visions beautiful, and like with many other places of the Dark Lands, the dreamy realm was far too blissful to leave.

Some, though, discovered that they had been tricked and found themselves not in the arms of a handsome, mysterious lover, but in the orc breeding pits, listening to the bellows of those beasts who fought for a chance to mate them. These unfortunates were the women who had displeased the Nine, and they are forgotten in all of the tales.

The reign of peace had come to an end for both Gondor and Minas Morgul when at last Gorthaur the Cruel had increased in strength and left Dol Guldur in the spring of 2942. He returned to Barad-dûr, bringing with Him a great force of orcs and men.

Skri was lord of the two towers of Carchost and Narchost and watched over Morannon and Cirith Gorgor, the Haunted Pass. While patrolling Dagorlad, Skri and his escort found to their dismay the first show of the manifestation of the Dark Lord Himself. Caught by surprise, Skri and his forces were not quick enough and their path of retreat back to the Morannon had been sealed off by the leering bodyguards of the Dark Lord. Though they had striven against them, Skri and his men could not hope to prevail against such ancient spirits of might and dread, and so the Eighth was taken. His escort had been quickly slain as they were of no importance to Sauron, and once again the defenses of the Towers of Carchost and Narchost crumbled. Like the spiders of His woodland realm, Gorthaur had caught what He wanted.

Chained in a web of spells, Skri had been dragged to the ruins of the Dark Tower, and the quiet one's screams mingled with the sound of the lash of the fiery whip of Sauron Himself. His body flailed into searing flesh, he next knew more tortures, punishments terrible beyond any that mortal men could withstand. Torments that rent the soul, stripped the mind of all will, and subjected the body to unbelievable agonies.

In times to come, the visions, the fantasies he saw in his mind, of all that he had endured, would ever haunt him, oft times rendering him senseless. Under the power of the Dark Lord, Skri had been forced to yield his Ring and serve his first Master against his will. He had asked to die rather than betray the Lord of Morgul, but Sauron had only ridiculed him, mocking him, claiming him and his Ring as prizes, and held him prisoner.

Shame and self-loathing burned within Skri, and he cursed his weakness. Years later, he would turn, as he had once in life, to the music that only he could play. For long hours, he would sit, his fingers pounding out his tormented soul on the keyboard of a Númenórean water organ. When somber, wistful moods were upon him and he thought of the lady who lay in bewitched beauty on a slab in the tombs, he would play woeful songs upon his flute. The slight solace he would know in years to come would be the strange, haunting melodies which came from a heart and soul that had been consumed with regret.

The Third and Fifth Nazgûl commanded a small force which had been set to guard Cirith Ungol. They were the next to feel the rising might of Gorthaur. It was upon the night of the spring feast, a celebration that had been observed since the ancient days of men, that a drunken haze lay heavily upon the two cities. The Nazgûl and their guards, besotted upon too much wine, were blissfully oblivious to the presence of the unseen ones, the lesser spirits under the command of Sauron. These beings of great power and dread passed invisible through the eastern end of the Morgul Vale and drifted up the Straight Stair and Winding Stair and then through the spider's pass, striking all in their path dead from terror.

The underground escape from Cirith Ungol sealed, Sauron laid siege upon the fortress. Great was the host that surrounded Cirith Ungol, with the Dark Lord and His bodyguard at its head, and at the first declaration of war, all springtime revelry ceased. Below the ramparts of the tower through the darkness, Gothmog and Krakfakhthal could see the waiting host and the Dark Flame before the three tiers of the tower.

"Come down from your balconyéd height and embrace your true Master! My heart reaches out to you! Yield and know My generosity, My forgiving love! Deny Me and be damned!"

Krakfakhthal had clutched the edge of the parapet of the third level of the tower and dared to look down. His gaze chanced to fall directly upon the face of the Dark Lord, and he was caught in those dreadful eyes. Krak swayed, staggering back, and grasped the sleeve of Gothmog as he fell dumb to the floor.

Gothmog, impetuous, bold and foolhardy, had dared to spit over the parapet before he carried the body of his brother back into the safety of the tower. Then he heard the words that chilled him to the core, "Thou wilt drink thine own spit and thine own rankness when thou art suffering from thirst in My dungeons!" Still, Gothmog had ordered that the tower be defended.

Those men who were loyal to the Nazgûl were engulfed in the fires that streamed upward or died shrieking as they were driven mad and leapt to their deaths from the heights.

Torment awaited Gothmog and Krakfakhthal, and the pure rampaging fury of their Master fell upon them. There, broken after endless agonies of the spirit and the flesh, they fell to their knees, begging Him to take their Rings if only the pain would be lessened for but a mere moment. There was no will left to them when Sauron looked down to them and patronizingly said, "Long hast ye lived vainly and luxuriously in sloth. Your days of ease are ended. Ye shall labor for Me once again and aid in My designs for the rebuilding of Barad-dûr. All who serve ye will both hate and fear ye!"

The Dark Captain had in his possession the palantír of Isildur, and so he, from his high revolving tower, surveyed what had befallen Cirith Ungol and was about to befall his city. His first impulse had been to flee, but he felt compelled to stay. The tunnels that had been delved deep into the mountains and into the earth were sealed by spells which no mortal could ever hope to penetrate. Dooming all to his fate, the Nazgûl King would wait, and perhaps this time he would be victorious. Was he not - in his own mind, if not, perhaps, in reality - the Dark Lord of the Third Age? Was it his vanity and pride that spoke to him, or was it the yearnings of his Ring? Whatever the cause, he would wait for what was to happen, dark doom or freedom.

Strengthened now with three of the Seven and three of the Nine, Sauron felt empowered, terrible and potent. After bringing about the fall of Cirith Ungol, the Dark Lord's forces drove down the valley to Minas Morgul, where there they laid siege to the city. The fortress was ringed about by a vast company of orcs and men, sealing all inside so that none might escape through the iron-toothed gates in the city walls.

But the Morgul Lord had been wise and over the years had laid up vast stores of provisions. He had made certain that the water supply for Minas Morgul was secured, and that the men and orcs who garrisoned his fortress would be able to endure, even thrive, upon ample water supplies. There were already wells put in by the Númenóreans of long ago and that source had proved reliable all down the years. The engineers that the Witch-king brought from Carn Dûm made their own wells, sunk deep into the earth and delved into the sides of the mountains. There, finding great sources of fresh water deep underground and within the mountain itself, the Lord of the City had ensured that a siege of long duration could be withstood.

The ground about the fortress had been poorly situated for catapults to be employed to great use. Though rocks and projectiles could not break the walls, undoubtedly concentrated masses of orcish warriors could scale them, or so the Dark Lord thought.

The first onslaught of the siege had begun when the Dark Lord hurled a great force of orcs at the walls. The archers from their fortified positions on the walls tore gaping, bloody holes in the orc lines. Any who tried to gain the walls by scaling ladders were driven back with sword or spear, or were hurled screaming to their deaths when great cauldrons of scalding water had been overturned in their faces.

The Dark Lord was too impatient in the first days of the siege and sent many to their futile deaths. As the siege continued, He grew more cautious, though, and did not waste His orcs in useless charges against the indomitable walls. There were other means at His disposal.

In the autumn of 2942, Sauron sent out a herald, standard bearers and envoys to ride to the gates of Minas Morgul under flag of truce and offer parley. The chief emissary was a young man of little ability, but he had been found to be gifted in speech by Sauron's Lieutenant, his mentor.

The herald had sounded the trumpet as the standards of the Great Eye had fluttered in a slight breeze and the emissaries sat their horses beneath the towering walls of Minas Morgul.

"We claim the safety of the herald," the Mouth of the Mouth proclaimed.

"Who are you?" Angmar demanded.

"I am the fair-favored one. I am the chosen of Sauron's Mouth, the illustrious Lieutenant of Dol Guldur."

"Thy petition wilt be granted," boomed Angmar's voice from high atop the wall. "But why, pray thee, is a substitute sent for the Spokesman of the High Lord?"

Smugly, the young man had replied, "Sauron's Lieutenant does not treat with traitors!"

The archers behind the slits on the walls flexed their arms and waited for a signal to unleash their fury of barbs. None was forthcoming, and so they waited.

"What thou meanest, Spokesman of the Mouth, is that the Lieutenant is too afraid to appear himself," a cold voice said. "Why then dost thou waste my time? What dost thou want?"

"The complete and total surrender of this fortress and all those who garrison it. Mercy and forgiveness will be granted to all who accept these terms. The rest will be slain."

"The words of thy Master were ever false! Sauron has no mercy! This audience is at an end! Hasten away from my gates lest I slay thee!"

At the Witch-king's words, the arrows were unleashed, but they were calculated to fall harmlessly in front of the riders' horses. Betrayal of the white flag of parley was considered as a breach of protocol, and so the Mouth of the Mouth and his guards were allowed to leave unharmed. Still, a great fear came upon the envoy and he was sorely afraid. With a motion of his hand, they all turned and fled back to the safety of their own lines.

The young spokesman would soon be upon his knees, cringing and afraid, praying for his life. Perhaps it would have been far better for him had he found quick death from the bite of one of the arrows. He soon learned that there was no room for incompetency in the Dark Lands, and died slowly, screaming in pain.

The siege settled down into a tiresome monotony of waiting. Two months passed and another group of emissaries rode to the gates of the fortress of Minas Morgul and presented themselves. This time, the Lieutenant himself led them. Among the Mouth's party were Gothmog, Krakfakhthal and Skrishau, all forced into bondage once again.

Upon a snorting black stallion, the Mouth proclaimed, "I am the emissary of the Great Lord and as is the time-honored custom, I am granted safety of the ambassador. Wilt thou hear me!" Though the air was chill that day, those on the walls could perceive that the man was perspiring heavily. "Thou canst see that with me are three of thy comrades, Lord of Morgul. As thou already knowest, thy position is untenable."

"State thy business," came the cold voice. "I will listen to thy terms."

"The Master of us all is forgiving and benevolent and has only thy best interests at heart. All who will repent of their unrighteousness will be granted His full pardon with no penalty to be extracted! He promises great rewards, treasures, cities, to those who will come pleading, begging Him with a contrite heart and an humbled spirit. His terms are generous with the kindness of a loving Father."

The icy voice from the top of the wall called down, "Is this proffered mercy extended to us all? Was it extended to my brethren who are in thy company?"

The Lieutenant's horse trembled uneasily beneath him, though it was Mordor-bred. "Aye, to all!" the Mouth proclaimed. "Let them speak for themselves!"

The three rode ahead and halted their horses before the ramparts of the Tower. "It is futile to strive. Thy cause is a hopeless one. Surrender now," they had said in dull monotones. Their faces, which Angmar could see, were shrouded in sorrow, their features tormented with shame and dark memories.

"Their fealty has been extracted by pain," Angmar had replied. "Lieutenant, thou liest as ever!"

"Then if thou hast seen and thou hast heard, surely thou canst see that the swale is deep and the slough is treacherous. Forsake thy folly and surrender now before the flood engulfs thee and sinks thee into mire!"

"Thy words are filth and thou spewest swill from thy mouth! Knowest thee that I have ruled this City for almost a thousand years! I have ruled it well! I will not willingly relinquish my reign here only to be reduced to the rank of mere poppet of Another!"

Angered, the Mouth countered, "Thy words are brash! Measure them carefully and consider the consequences of what thou sayest and what thou doest! Reconsider ere it is too late!"

"I have considered my words for almost a thousand years and there has been much time to ponder what I would say when the time came. Nay, nay, I reject all offers! Tell thy Master that no treasures, no cities, no empty promises will buy my allegiance! What He wants will not be given back, for that which He gave is mine alone!"

"Thou speakest in haste, Lord of Morgul!" the dark figure below admonished him. "Reconsider! I entreat thee!"

"Begone, pampered, fawning lap dog of thy Master, and do not come yapping at my doors again! Make haste, or I will slay thee myself!"

"We will be back!" the Mouth cried as he turned his horse and he and his escort rode hastily back to the safety of the Dark Lord. The three Nazgûl tarried, mournfully looking up at the battlements until they, too, turned their steeds away from the face of the Morgul Lord.

In the dark heart of the Lieutenant, the first seed of hatred had been sown. It would be fanned over the years with jealousy until it grew into a dark tree of monstrous proportions where the shrill voices of spite would call out for vengeance.

In the eighth month of the siege, a plague descended upon the mortal forces who garrisoned the Tower of the Moon. Suspecting that the Dark Lord had sent this plague, it was ordered that the buckets of the catapults be filled with the dead and hurled towards the forces of Sauron Himself. The faces and bodies of the bloated dead which crashed into the fleeing Mordorian ranks were found upon later inspection to be covered with black and purple splotches and putrid, oozing pustules.

The plague began to spread to the enemy forces. The Dark Lord was mystified at the appearance of this pestilence, for it was not of His creation. "The Morgul Lord has designed this malady, for I did not! I will have My revenge upon him!" Later in private, Sauron confided in the Lieutenant and His bodyguards, "Now he dares steal My plans and My designs! He has purloined the Great Plague from Me! He is a rebel in all his ways! He will pay and he will pay dearly for this treachery!"

It chanced to be that in the waning month of that year that courage left three of the Nine and they began to plot secretly amongst themselves. "We cannot endure against the Master," Khamûl said. "Both our Master and the Morgul Lord compound spells of great potency and unleash them against the other. Look at how the Plague has diminished the fortress of the Tower of the Moon. These troops cannot withstand much longer. Brothers, I say to you that it would be well for us to leave these halls in stealth and secrecy."

"You mean abandon the others to their fate?" asked Zagbolg.

"Would it be better if we stayed here and suffered the same doom as they did?" replied Khamûl. "Nay! I say it would be wise for us to renounce the Dark Captain now while there yet might be time. What say you to this?" he looked around.

"I say yea," bleated Krith jubilantly. "Let them drown in their own sorrows and let us disavow all association, denouncing them for their perfidies!"

"Pledge unto me your loyalty," Khamûl had demanded. "Give your oaths to me. Promise that you will not betray me."

And so it was agreed, for what could they really do? It was inevitable that the Tower should fall at last to the Dark Lord, and what fools would wish to stay when they could escape?

Silently, nine days into the ninth month of the siege, Khamûl, Zagbolg and Krith crept through a postern door and vanished into the darkness. Rich would be their reward, and the Master would smile upon them in favor... after they had been properly chastised, of course. And thus was the fellowship that had lasted almost a thousand years sundered forever.

**NOTES**

Much thanks and gratitude to Aganuzîr for the invaluable assistance on Chapters 36 to 40. Many of the concepts in these chapters are based on ideas originally formulated by Aganuzîr. Thanks again for your help on this challenging /br /All of the material in these chapters fit in with Tolkien's Tale of Years in Appendix B of The Return of the King.


	40. The Conquest of the Ninth Ring

Chapter Written by Angmar

"Hail, Number Two, Number Four and Number Nine! Thy return to the protective circle of My care is most wise, My three wayward sons! Far too long have ye wandered homeless and masterless, far away from My love and guidance." Gorthaur, His eyes burning with deep and deadly embers and with His arms folded across His great mailed chest, leaned against a great column of black rock.

His bodyguard - those grave and grim spirits of darkness, their faces hidden behind masked helms of sable - stared down at the three wraiths. Their eyes sparkled and glittered with open malice. A chill went up Khamûl's spine, and Zagbolg turned and looked at the Black Easterling with undisguised fear. Krith frowned.

"Greet the penitent ones, My minions."

"Hail, Lords of the Night! Ye have been missed!" the guards spoke with one scornful voice.

"Master!" Khamûl, the spokesman of the three, stepped forward. "We have answered Thy summons..."

"...A little late," Sauron interjected.

"Forgive us, Lord! Thou wert gone so long and we could not hear Thy Voice!"

"Perhaps because ye were not listening!" the Voice sounded hurt.

"We were deceived!"

"Willingly," the Dark Lord responded sadly.

The three hung their heads. "We did not know. We were far away."

"And not seeking Me with any true conviction or desire of ever finding Me. I dwelt at Dol Guldur for over a thousand years, and then after being absent for four centuries, I returned and remained there until this year! In all those many years, did ye ever seek Me out? I was not too difficult to find, if ye had really wanted! What pain ye have brought to My heart, faithless sons!"

"We were not sure that he who dwelt in Dol Guldur was Thee!"

"Who did ye think it might be?" Sauron laughed sarcastically and turned to His bodyguards. "Do they jest?" He asked in feigned bewilderment.

"Nay, they lie!" the bodyguards chortled.

"Would My own sons lie to Me?" He murmured in that cloying way that commanded complete honesty.

"Yessss!" the bodyguards hissed. "They would and they did!"

The Dark Lord turned back to His three trembling sons. "I have dwelt in this knowledge of thy rejection and betrayal for all these many long, aching years! Ye have driven a spear through My loving heart! I am crushed!" The cry was wrenched out of His throat and He fell back against the rock, clutching His hand to His chest.

The three Nazgûl bowed their heads in shame. "Forgive us, Master! We have erred!"

"Now ye have come back to Me at last, but are ye truly repentant?" His voice began to grow in magnitude and, brooding, He began to pace back and forth before the black pillar of rock. "I have a question for ye, My impious sons! Shalt ye, rebels all, now promise total loyalty to Me?

"Yes, Master, yes!" Khamûl cried, and the others echoed his assertions.

"I wonder... should ye betray Me as ye did thy Captain?" He paused to turn his blazing eyes at Khamûl and his two comrades.

The three looked at their fellows in dismay.

"How I had wished that thy loyalty had been given to Me because of love and worship," He bemoaned. "But ye cannot be loyal to anyone, can ye?" His accusing voice slithered through their ears.

"We wanted to be loyal, Master, but we did not know how to find Thee!"

"Can ye not devise with any new lies, or must ye constantly fall back to the same one? Why did I ever pick such weak fools as servants! Ye are not even skillful at deceit! Incompetent asses!"

The three felt their souls shrivel as though scorched with a hot iron.

"Treacherous betrayers of thy Master and thy fellows, base-hearted villains, the three of ye!" Sauron railed on. "Honor is a stranger to ye! Not only are ye disloyal to Me, ye are disloyal to thine own King and thine own fellows! Now ye have come, selling thyselves to Me like harlots! Were thy lives worth so much to ye that ye would strip thyselves of all dignity? Wretches craven, despicable and low!"

"But, Lord," Khamûl tried to explain, "we were promised mercy if we came to Thee!"

"Mercy?" the Dark Lord laughed. "Do they deserve mercy?" He turned to His bodyguards.

"Nay, Master, nay! They deserve nothing but death!"

Krith began trembling uncontrollably. Khamûl looked at him in disgust and Zagbolg was by this time too dazed to speak.

"I will give ye mercy," the Dark Lord hissed as He picked up His mace from the ground and walked towards the three. They were down on their bellies in an instant, arms spread forward, begging mercy. Krith's teeth chattered as he buried his face against the stony ground. Zagbolg muttered incomprehensible gibberish as he reached out a hand towards that of Khamûl, hoping for the comfort of his hand, and wept when he found it. Khamûl looked up and saw the great mace poised above them, ready to strike them at any moment.

"Mercy! Mercy!" they wailed in terror.

"Death is too good a punishment for ye," Gorthaur said coldly as He slowly lowered the mace to rest in front of Khamûl's face. "Perhaps Eru might show ye clemency."

"But, Master, we did return," Khamûl said feebly.

"Yes, Master, we came back," Krith echoed.

Zagbolg could no longer speak at all, but lay on the ground singing a children's song about fishing on the Two Rivers.

"This is true," Sauron said slowly and calculatingly. "But ye came back out of fear and not out of love. Still, I am beneficent and will reward ye, though ye do not deserve it. I am a loving Father, though, ever forgiving and kind. Ye will have thy rewards, thy cities, thy treasures, thy power, but I do not think that ye shall ever enjoy them," He said darkly.

"Master, we thank Thee for Thy mercy and generosity!" the three Nazgûl gasped.

"Now give Me thy Rings to show thy fealty!" Sauron demanded harshly.

"Our Rings?" Khamûl asked in astonishment.

"Yes!"

"Master, no!" Khamûl wailed. "Without our Rings, our powers are lessened!"

"I know," Sauron smiled in satisfaction.

"But, Master," Krith lamented, "we can serve Thee better if Thou let us keep our Rings!"

"I need them far more than ye do! Give them back! They are Mine!" The Dark Lord's face lit up with an impish malice. "Look into My Eyes," He whispered compassionately, and they were compelled to look. Each, one by one, held out his Ring, and they fell once again to their Master's power as they once had done so many years before. The Master of Treachery roared with laughter as Khamûl and his comrades were dragged out of His presence by His bodyguards.

At last after long years Sauron had been able to assume a shape again and now with the power of Three of the Dwarven Rings and Six of the Nine Rings of Men, He would grow ever stronger. His energy and strength renewing, He absorbed the vitality of the strength He had stored in the Rings, the creations of His primal energy.

Thus, in the ninth month of the siege, He gathered His forces and commanded them to renew the assault upon the fortress of Minas Morgul with new strength and zeal. This time, though, the Dark Lord Himself would be amongst them, and no power upon Arda save that of one of like or greater divinity, could ever hope to stand against Him.

The warfare changed in tone. Before, men and orcs had hurled themselves upon the walls in great assaults, but now the battle was to be a different war of magic and sorcery. Great power of sorcery and might, blinding lightnings, spells of great power, lethal in their intent, were unleashed against the walls of Minas Morgul.

The most fortunate of the Morgul King's soldiers died quickly during the first manifestation of power. Others less fortunate had fled screaming, running, their garments in flames, and joined others whose flesh was peeling off in oozing pustules. The still-living human torches plunged, unknowing of aught except their own agony, into the Morgulduin. There they perished, if not of their wounds, then of the steaming waters which had been enchanted tenfold with dark spells for the defense of Minas Morgul. Sauron found it particuarlly amusing that the Witch-king's soldiers were victims of his own ensorcelled defenses.

Pandemonium raged and the city fell yet again. The host of Sauron rushed forward in a maelstrom of destruction and fury, slaying all whom they found. In the chaos, Udukhatûrz and Rutfîmûrz were separated from their king and ringed about by Sauron's fierce bodyguards. Taken captive back to the Master, they, too, staunch though they were, had been humbled and forced to bow, to kneel, and to give.

Then the Witch-king stood alone as the Dark Lord manifested Himself, encircling about the very Tower of the Moon as a cloud of darkness and dread. A thunderstorm of evil portent, fire and brimstone, lightnings and thunder, He loomed above the battlements, appearing greater even than the mountains themselves, and spewed out His wrath upon those who dared try to withstand Him.

"Hear Me now, My careless little kinglet! Thy keep, thy armories, thy towers, turrets and tunnels, and even thy secret gardens of pleasure and those of thy brethren have been taken! Thou has lost all!"

The great booming Voice droned on, assailing the Morgul Lord's senses and his will. "Outside the gates of thy city, those of thy men who were captured shall be thrust into cauldrons filled with the waters from the Morgulduin and thy own deep wells. The rich wood from thy private chambers - where thou hast lounged slothfully all these many years - shall be used to kindle the fires. Slow will be their torment and bitter will be their deaths.

"But better still, My kinglet. Even now at this moment, the women of all thy brethren are being raped before the eyes of their wailing spawn. Then, after My men and orcs have had their way with them and tired of ravishing and torturing them, they shall slay the wenches and their broods in the cruelest of ways.

"The worst of the torments are reserved for thine own women and thy children, O kinglet. Thou shalt be bound in spell-enchanted chains and wilt watch as thy women and thy daughters are stripped. Listen well to their pleas and screams as they are ravished by My men and orcs. Thy sons will know torments unimaginable and all that thou carest for shall die in agony with screams upon their parched and bloody lips.

"And then thou shalt see thy favorite mistress, her arms and legs spread wide and strapped to timbers taken from thy bed-chambers. Wilt thou weep and plead and beg as thou seeth her body riven with steel spikes? When she cries out in torment as she is raped over and over again? When the blood runs down her thighs? When she sobs in pain? And what wilt thou do, frail mortal, when she dies in shrieking agony as a steel sword is sunk betwixt her thighs?"

"Thou hast grown mad, as did Melkor Thy Regent!" Angmar bellowed in rage and disbelief. "Fiend of Hell and craven murderer of innocent women and children, I curse Thee!" he shrieked, bitter anguish ripping his heart asunder. He held all his women and children dear, as well as those of his brethren, and they had all been under the protection of his sword. "Damn Thy soul for all eternity!"

"Thou shouldst have slain them all yourself; there were nine months in which to do this," Sauron taunted."Thou couldst have given them a peaceful death, a slumbering spell which would have ushered them into gentle oblivion. Didst thou thinkest that thou could have preserved their lives by sending them to escape through thy secret tunnels? Fool! The openings to all of thy holes have been found and sealed by My minions. Ever hath thou been vain and thought to prevail against Me! No one can, not even thee!"

The words were bitter gall to Angmar's ears, for they were true. He could not deny them. He had grown too confident over the past thousand years. Had his defenses not been strong ones? Had he not planned well? But had he not been a fool all along, deceiving himself by listening to his own counsel? Now everything was lost to him!

How his heart convulsed in rage at this cruel Tormentor who would rob him of all whom he cherished! "Damn jealous bastard! He begrudges me any affection for any other than Him!" He thought of the women of his household - some now aged but still beautiful, preserved by spells to retain their loveliness until he could no longer forestall their deaths - all of them had loved him and loved him well.

The young damsels who clung him, trusted him and looked to him as both lover and father, they, too, would die at the hands of this unholy fiend! Gentle creatures - who could flame into passion at his embrace, at his tongue and his lips - would soon be shrieking out their death agonies. Arms which had held him through musk-scented nights would never cleave to him again! Sweet faces who looked to him in adoration, tender lips that he caressed - all would now be no more, crushed because of their love for him! They would die for nothing more than to appease the envy and jealousy of a mad God!

"I LOVE THEM AND NEVER THEE!" he screamed in his mind, mad now himself in his rage.

Angmar shook as he concentrated all of his might and will into a spell of death and destruction. If it were in his power, he would strip the mortal form from the Dark Lord and send Him staggering, His body dying and his soul fleeing into the wilderness of Arda and into the murk of His own black soul.

"Why dost thou tremble, Lord of Morgul? Hast fear come into thine heart? There is naught that thou canst do about it except babble from thy tower like a drunken fool! None of mortal birth can prevail against Me!" Sauron gloated.

"One did!"

"Thou art not he, fool!"

Seething with anger and fury, the Dark Lord thought at first to slay the Morgul King, but it was a far sweeter reprisal to let him live, squirming like a filth-covered worm under His finger. Gorthaur's eyes went to fiery slits as He surveyed the Númenórean before Him and roared in laughter.

Angmar had called forth all of his will, his power and his energy and turned his strength into a mighty spell of wrath and revenge. He raised both hands and unleashed a blazing bolt of hissing, sizzling lightning and the blue fire of fury and rage at the Base Master of Treachery. The explosion rocked the buildings to their foundations. The earth shook and the thunderous noise resounded off the mountains. Black acrid smoke burst out and then trailed away in ghostly vapors around the structures, which now glowed with an angry green sheen of hatred.

The brilliant diamond of the Ring on Angmar's hand flashed in a myriad of blinding sparks and the gold of the band began to cut into his finger, searing his flesh. His Ring was fighting him, turning against him when he needed its power the most. He stove to command the Ring's magick as he sensed through its powers that its true Master was in pain.

A flash of blind fear and panic filled the Dark Lord's eyes as He felt His helm crack, the mail curtain which hung about His cheeks tearing. A mighty blow smote his chest as His breastplate was rent. As He felt the black blood running into His eyes and His chest stinging from the gash, He knew that His body was far too weak yet to endure such such power. Perhaps He should have bade His time and waited, but did He not have the Three Dwarven Rings and now Eight of the Nine Rings of Power? He had miscalculated Angmar's strength and determination though, and now He found the Witch-king far stronger than He had expected.

"Let the fool dissipate his powers and sap his strength against My minions. He shall face Me alone later," the Dark Lord plotted darkly. The fiery eyes flashed spitefully and a slow, cunning smile curled across His lips.

"Canst thou do no better, pawn?" Sauron taunted, laughing as He retreated silently into the shadows.

Then at a command, Sauron's vanguard of orcs and men rushed at the Morgul Lord. His strength weakened now, still the Morgul Lord was a formidable opponent. He held his hands up and a cruel light played about his foes' faces and bodies, arcing from one of his hands to the other in a glow of brilliant white light. Then the rippling bolt of energy crashed into the cursing, screaming horde which poured towards him. When the light struck the first ranks, their bodies erupted in a spew of blood and gore, scattering bits of flesh and bone against the bodies of those behind them.

Stark, unreasoning terror engulfed the following ranks, but the horror of the One who commanded them drove them forward. Their fear was fed as they heard the Witch-king intoning spells of protection, hatred and power. Angmar traced a circle about him with his sword as he intoned the words of the spells.

His Ring struggled against him, burning his finger, searing it to the bone, as the diamond flamed in sparks of white fire and the gold gleamed with a raw intensity. Angered now, his Ring strove against his will and gripped his finger in a vise of searing heat. Flaming pain coursed from his hand to every fibre of his body and culminated in spiraling, swirling agony in the pit of his stomach. Still he set his defenses in his circle and faced those who would destroy him. He bared his teeth as he snarled the words of this curse:

Akûl agh bor, ghaash agh dushtala  
Khûr latub agh shakgriig asht-latu  
Mat rad!

With all his resolve, he directed his will against his enemies and trembled as he felt his powers depleting with the force of the curse. The onrushing ranks charged towards him. A concussion wave struck the ground beneath them and they were rocked by the tremor of the earth. Some toppled over soundlessly, while others found a freezing cold surround them as their bones began to crumble and their bodies sag. The blood froze in their capillaries, veins and arteries, expanding with the freezing liquids as their bodies were torn asunder by the internal torment.

The Witch-king knew that such a great concentration of will and strength sapped his life-force, weakening him even more as he spent himself in his hatred and rage. He stood panting in the center of the circle as he felt the blood oozing from his pores and his heart close to bursting. Weariness assailed his body and his Ring renewed its efforts to force him to halt.

Waiting for this moment, the Dark Lord strode forward, His great cat-eyes narrowed to slits. He carried no weapons for He needed none. The Witch-king eyed him warily and stood his ground in the circle of power.

"Dost thou think that thou canst hide from Me in thy pathetic little fortress of spell-wrought defense?" the Dark Lord smirked. "I can destroy thee wherever thou shalt goest. There is no hiding from thy Master. I can see thee, body and soul!"

Together they had faced each other in the smoking, eerie glow of a tower that Gorthaur's might had destroyed. Then with howling, sizzling supernatural bolts and flames, Angmar strove against his Master yet again. Buildings and walls crumpled in catastrophic explosions as hissing red fire engulfed them. The Dark Lord's eyes had flashed and flamed with the dark power of hell. Then Sauron hurled the accumulated malice of His soul upon the Witch-king as a furious glowing orb of fire which struck Angmar's body like a withering tempest of knives.

The sky was ablaze with the fire and lightning of their fury which could be seen glowing eerily for miles. The people of Gondor trembled in fear and closed fast their shutters and bolted tight their doors, fearing that war was coming to them from out of the Valley of Living Death and the Nameless Land of Horror beyond.

Still, the Morgul Lord struggled against Him. With the last of his strength, he hurled a bolt of crackling blue lightning which struck and reverberated off the breastplate of the Dark Lord. Still He stood, laughing, for not one ring of His mail was even scorched this time.

"Thou weaken now, Lord of Morgul! Thou hast wasted thyself!" Gorthaur had shouted, and spewed forth His venom in a howling fury, a dark glowing cloud of might and sorcery that rolled over the Witch-king in waves of blinding pain. The Morgul Lord felt that his very soul was being torn from him and his body was being shredded with claws of iron. His own breath strangled him, suffocating him, as a rush of blood spewed out of his mouth and his entrails convulsed. His soul was being wrenched from him as his blighted body bent and reeled in pain.

Putrid, reeking morbidity, his own mortality swaying, giving away to corruption, he felt himself crushed in a vile, rank darkness of falling towers and swirling, crumbling shards which penetrated his body. He gasped as another bolt nearly toppled him.

At last his magic and strength drained and spent, Angmar stood on trembling legs as he reviled himself for his vanity and corporal weakness. Wild, primal crystals of ancient power and faceted jewels of exquisite beauty swirled about him as he retched, spewing blood from his mouth. He saw a tall mountain with three eagles soaring above its rising slopes. He heard in the distance the sound of the waves beating upon a shore that was covered in the midst of time. There was the strumming of a lute as a nightingale sang somewhere in a garden. Then the voice of Sauron boomed in his mind.

"Try one last time, fool! Hurl thy pathetic little fireballs at Me! I will twist them and turn them and unleash them against thee! Thou art beaten! Thou hast lost!"

Then at last giving into the weakness and pain, trembling and quivering, the Morgul Lord fell to his knees, his body ripped and mangled, his flesh seared, blood gushing from numberless gashes. He swayed and struggled to hold his head up but it was heavy and drooped with its own weight. Then he was walking across an emerald green field and watching as the sheep grazed peacefullyin the pastures of Emerië. Twilight had fallen and he needed to rest upon the green grass. He smiled and closed his eyes.

Then a great Voice called him back to sorrow and pain.

"Thy life is fragile, My weak, pathetic little kinglet. I hold it in My hand. Thy life hovers on the threshold of death. One more blow and thou shalt die and thy fëa flee wailing in terror. It shall not go far but wilt only come back to Me... Shall we explore this further?" Sauron's fiery eyes glinted in malevolence upon His blackened face.

"Why dost Thou prolong this farce? Let me die," Angmar whispered.

"Silence, thou fool! When thy spirit is drawn to Me, shall I cast thee away casually, uncaring, into the darkness of cold, everlasting night? It is but a simple matter to be rid of thee by casting thy Ring back into the cauldron of its creation." He chortled maliciously, towering before Angmar as an apparition of fury.

"Then do it," he laughed weakly and closed his eyes again. Gorthaur's words seemed trivial, petty, nothing more than a minor inconvenience that he brushed away with the wave of a hand. He sighed and wished for death.

"That would be too simple, little kinglet. Beg, My poppet, beg Me for thy wretched, miserable existence! Consider facing the judgment of Eru, the Remorseless One, and His penalty for all eternity! Fear THAT if thou dost not fear Me! I will show thee mercy, whereas He shall show thee none!"

"I do not give a damn now. The mercy of one Tyrant is as good as the mercy of another!" he laughed almost giddily.

"Let us see what thou sayest when the fate of thy soul hinges upon the fate of thy Ring!"

"The face of Mandos is far fairer than Thine," Angmar chuckled sarcastically before a blinding bolt of fierce power struck him down. His crown rolled from his head, clinking forlornly against the blistering cobblestones.

**NOTES**

Ice and snow, fire and rainbr /Akûl agh bor, ghaash agh dushtalabr /Rend you and melt your bonesbr /Khûr latub agh shakgriig asht-latubr /Die nowbr /Mat rad!br /Words in Shadowlandian (LOS) Black Speech /br /Canonical evidence of Nazgûl battles of flame and magic:br /br /"I galloped to Weathertop like a gale, and I reached it before sundown on my second day from Bree - and they [the Nazgûl] were there before me. They drew away from me, for they felt the coming of my anger and they dared not face it while the Sun was in the sky. But they closed round at night, and I was besieged on the hill-top, in the old ring of Amon Sûl. I was hard put to it indeed: such light and flame have not been seen on Weathertop since the war-beacons of old." - Gandalf, "The Council of Elrond," The Fellowship of the Ring, p. 277


	41. Ruins and Ashes

Chapter Written by Angmar

And so the lord of the city had capitulated, the fortress had been taken, the ramparts had been breached, the walls had been crumpled by withering blasts of power. A heavy silence had fallen upon the ruined city and naught could be heard save the waxing and waning of the sad winds. Yet there in the midst of the supreme quietude, presences could be sensed, dim, lurking, rapacious maws for the unknowing, and no man made his way there. Sorrow and madness stalked the shattered confines where once there had been feastings and toasts and merry making, laughter and song.

In the chambers where the women had once lolled upon their silken cushions and listened with quickening heartbeats for the footsteps of their lords, there lay heaps of broken rubble upon the smoke-kissed marble floors. The fine rich carpets were soiled and rent, and not even a mouse dared use their scraps for nests. The gems that had once adorned the walls in lacy mosaics had long since been pried away by greedy hands, and now sightless caverns were the only memory of what once had been. The glorious statues that once had stood in the gardens and around the fountains were twisted and warped into graven foul shapes that were both fantastic and loathsome. The beauty was lost, the luster robbed, and the city held now only grim dread for any foolish enough to dare its ghastly chambers.

Such had been the sight nine years later when six silent shapes with their large contingent of men and uruks had come to encamp in the devastated city. The progress of rebuilding Barad-dûr was well underway, and the Master had seen fit in His own mercy to allow the captive kings to return to restore power and might to the wretched city. The only inhabitants of the abandoned streets were the green murk-covered bones of those who had been slain in the hideous battle that had raged nine years before... and the still reapers, who had never left, and perhaps never would.

All this would now change.

The six climbed up the stairs that led to a destroyed rampart and surveyed the task before them. Below they saw tents being set up and fires kindled. Somewhere far below amidst the laughs, shouts and curses, the pleas of the bleeding lips of slaves - both man and elf - could be heard begging for mercy from the punishments which they were dealt for being too slow.

"And so we come back to our home, my lords, if such it can be called. Now it is our chore to restore it, to rebuild the fallen walls, the ruined towers, the broken ramparts," the tallest among them said as he leaned upon a still-intact parapet.

"No small task, my lord!" exclaimed the one beside him, tall in his own right, though less of stature when compared to the height of the other.

"We have the men, the resources and the power to make all possible. The city will rise again!"

"We lack our Rings, and that is no minor want," the other replied matter-of-factly.

"And without the presence of the Second, the Fourth and the Ninth, our strength is lessened. The work will go slower-" another of the six pointed out.

"This work can be done without the Three and their Rings!" the tallest one interrupted. "They have received their rewards; they now control Dol Guldur in the Master's absence." The tall one fell to silent reverie, looking about his ruined domain, while the others drew away from him, talking among themselves.

"Who needs them?" the blond warrior snarled.

"Certainly the atmosphere is much cheered by their absence," one of the tall ones said.

"Gloomsayers and naysayers come like beggars to the banquet, whining and complaining, until all cheer leaves, and we have little enough good humor as it is."

"Like wan, pallid Mandos at the doorway," the quiet one grinned morbidly, "but he would be far more pleasant than the doleful Three."

The tallest allowed a smile to flicker over his grim features. "We know well, Eighth, your fondness for Námo."

"We have much in common," the other laughed dryly, his dark eyes peering up at the King from under his cowl. "Perhaps someday we shall meet and make merry for eternity."

The High King put his hand on the Eighth's shoulder. "We should not lose you so soon, my friend. Mandos' gain would be our loss. What more do we have now except each other?"

"Naught and no one, save for the dead!"

They all fell quiet for a moment and listened to the wind as it blew mournfully about the fire-blasted battlements. They watched as the banner of the pale crescent moon was hoisted to the top of the tallest tower and flew there once more, proudly waving in the breeze.

"What is your next command, my Captain?"

"Give the dead a proper burial! I will order cairns prepared for their honored bones. Their spirits scream out for the respect due them!" A grim scowl of determination upon his face, the Captain clenched his fists until the bones of his powerful hands and arms stood out in rigid relief.

"And what of the others?" a grieving voice asked softly.

"All of you will know your own, even if they are nothing more than piles of ashes! Take their remains to the mountains and entomb them in the unfinished crypts. Cast about them an aura of their former radiance so that we may behold them in their now vanquished beauty! Let flesh bedeck their forms once more! They will repose thus preserved in unnatural loveliness so that all who go there may behold what we have lost, and perhaps mourn. Faithful beyond death, some of them have been waiting for our return... though only we can perceive them. Find whatever comfort you can derive from that!"

"There is little enough there," the fair-haired one responded dismally.

"But some," murmured the quiet Eighth, "when they linger about us in the shadows of the night and touch us with their wispy hands, their lips sighing murmurs of undying love..."

"What will iHe/i say?" ventured another more cautious.

"iHe/i spoke naught upon the matter, so I conclude that if it is not expressly prohibited, we have tacit approval to do as we will. He cares not so long as we do not go against His word."

"And the city itself will remain as we see it, broken and mangled, with only the walls restored?"

"Aye, but should it be left to my design, I would restore all as it was before, and perhaps someday I shall. But now let us see about constructing a bastion of unrivaled strength, an impregnable fortress, and let any who are foolish enough to assail it be ground to dust upon its teeth!"

"My lord, look below! Your pavilion has been raised," one of the six pointed out a tent which had been erected far below.

"And so it has. Then let us go down and toast our renewed occupancy of this place once again while I show you my plans for its design."

After walking down the spiraling stairs, they entered between the posts of the great black and silver tent, paying little attention to the fawning lines of those who would do all obeisance and respect to them. Once inside, the King drew a phial from inside his cloak and freed the steaming contents. Chanting, he walked slowly about the perimeters of the circular tent as he poured the contents of the phial in a continuous circle. The others, their heads bowed, their lips murmuring, responded at the appropriate time with the words of the needed incantations.

Once every drop had seeped into the ground, the King closed his eyes and chanted in a soft, almost imperceptible tone. The others lifted their heads in unison and watched as the steam from the black liquid coiled like a black serpent, hissing and spitting, writhing about the circle. Suddenly there was a crackling and popping as the manifestation of dark power exploded into green, foul-smelling flames. They kept their eyes upon the blaze until it burnt itself out until naught was left but a ring of white ash which soon disappeared with a little puff of smoke.

"My brothers," the King raised his hands high, proclaiming to their minds in thought-speech, "the tent is now enspelled. Any mortal who dares enter will die instantly, and spirits will be repelled far away into the thorny wilderness. We may now speak in peace."

"Much like old days, my lord," commented Udukhatûrz the Seventh as he first smelled a draught of wine and then tested it with the tip of one finger. "Exceptionally fine!" he exclaimed after bringing the droplet to his lips. It was not that he was unimpressed by his Captain's spell, but he had learned the formula and the rituals so well over the years that he could create circles of power of his own.

"Nine years! Nine years!" growled Krakfakhthal the Fifth who shook his long blond locks in agitation. "And we are brought back to this wreckage, this humiliation of defeat!"

"But there is always wine," smiled Udu. "You cannot say that does not help."

"Do not forget the joys of Barad-dûr so soon," Skrishau the Eighth reminded them in a macabrely cheerful voice.

"Your humor never varies, Eighth," Gothmog the Third grumbled.

"At least Krith is not with us!" Skri chortled. "I can take great joy in that fact. Let him haunt the woods of Mirkwood! I vow that his unending complaining would blight the whole forest and turn it into a festering canker! But that would not be such a bad idea." He opened his mouth wide in a laugh, bearing his grimly white teeth, turning his head around to smile at all of them.

"Traitors, all three! Let them rot in the stench of Mirkwood and stay far from these halls!" Rut exclaimed caustically.

"The purpose for our meeting this night is not to mull over past grievances, for what good can come of recounting ever and anon that which cannot be remedied and griefs that cannot be solaced?" spoke their King, now much more subdued and tempered than he had been once upon a time. "We make the best of the now, for that is all which we are assured."

"The powers toy with us like poppets upon strings, according to their fancy and their whim. If they deign to let us laugh, they will. If they see fit to have us cry, that they will do. But always it is they who pull the strings," Udu said with a grim smile, feeling morbidly cheered by the draughts of wine and on the verge of composing a eulogy.

"It is kismet, fate," Gothmog murmured, "and there is naught that we can do to prevail against it."

"This mood of despair will get us nowhere! We have each suffered and lost in our turn, but we cannot change what has been done to us." The High King inhaled deeply and then expelled his breath slowly. "There remains to us a great task... to rebuild what our Master in His righteous wrath took from us for our perniciousness." The words almost stuck in his throat. "Oh, sweet irony, sweet irony! Can we ever endure it?" he laughed to himself. "He forces us to undo that which He caused!"

The others turned to him when he spoke, and their mood grew even more grave. Though they had suffered in their nine-year sojourn in Barad-dûr, their leader had been wounded grievously, tortured, until his spirit had almost fled away, sighing in relief that the long agony was almost over. Then the Master, in His cruel mercy, had called him back ere fëa was severed from hröa.

"We shall continue with the discussions of our work," the King reminded them as he turned to the spell-protected map tubes which lay upon the table. Obedient only to his touch, the containers opened easily and he drew forth maps and plans. As he passed them around the table, the others studied the architectural designs.

"The walls of the nine tiers of the city will be the first to be rebuilt. The great central tower will be stronger and more marvelous than ever before, and the lesser turrets will follow in suit. Then the halls for the garrisons will be constructed on the foundations of the old. Stables must be built to house our mounts. The wells will be thoroughly rid of the bones of men and animals. The ruined tunnels are to be sealed up and new ones will be delved. There are many things that must be done to have all in readiness so that the Master's plans might be implemented."

Not that the King cared a whit about the Master's plans, for he hated Sauron with an ever-burning zeal. There was no choice but to serve Him, however, since the Master now held their Rings in His possession. They were as much slave and thrall as any mortal who bore the iron collar of servitude locked around his neck. Still, though, Angmar was allowed a great amount of discretion in what he did, just as long as he did not exceed the limits placed upon him.

"And these towers along the crests of the mountains, my lord?" Udu questioned. "There have never been any there before."

"Aye, they will be placed there to guard us against iany/i enemy." He emphasized the word "any," and they understood his meaning well. "These new watch towers will be linked to the city by a new road which I will soon survey. This road will curve through the mountains all the way to northern Nurn."

"And the Master? Does He approve this?" Gothmog asked uncertainly, a look of fear flickering deep in his eyes.

"He knows of it, yes. He seemed to look upon it with approval as an improvement in the defenses, provided by the western watch towers. The roads, of course, will facilitate the movement of troops."

What the King did not mention was the fact that in years past he had ridden through the mountains, scouting out every possible place where he could locate lairs and hidden shelters. He rued, though, his stupidity in never taking advantage of this knowledge and devising an escape route. Now he planned to remedy that error. Sauron, though, would never know, unless the Dark Lord forced Angmar into revealing the existence of these lairs. No, Sauron would see splendid towers, a well-built road, but what He would not see were where the secret sanctuaries lay. Now, if Angmar's plans did not go amiss, he could evacuate the city at almost a moment's notice, and have his people hide in the mountains where they would be protected until they could make their way to safer lands.

"My lord, ever do your skills at building amaze me!" Udukhatûrz commented. "How you came by them is beyond me."

What none of the others knew, not even the other two Númenóreans, Udukhatûrz and Rutîmûrz - for they had long been robbed of their full memories - was that their king had been schooled in Númenor, where the architects and builders had ever striven to bring the skill to its highest level of perfection.

The King smiled, pleased. "As you can see from the designs and sketches, each level of the city will have its own palace with its own tower. As it was before, there will be two aligning east, two facing west, two aligning north, two facing south, and the Great Tower resting in the center. Even the three absent brethren will have palaces and retain their jurisdiction should they visit Minas Morgul or take up residency and dwell with us once again."

The others studied the plans intently and marveled at the ornate and wondrous edifices which could hardly be considered as defenses. There, amidst the sketches of walls, towers, dungeons, chambers, storerooms, buildings and structures, were depictions of new things even more splendid than those buildings which had stood before. There were drawings of gardens graced with beauteous kiosks, fountains and pools, and one with a magnificent many-tiered fountain which would be built in a central courtyard. These would be the places where the Nazgûl would spend their idle hours, enjoying their leisure and playing with their lovely toys, both those among the living and those who had passed from life into the spectral world.

There were even buildings designated as museums which would display the relics and weaponry and other paraphernalia of their fallen foes. There were libraries to hold records and archives, correspondence, maps, sketches and drawings that would record the lore and history of the place, so that generations yet unborn might someday learn of the glories of the city. That the King had not wasted his years in prison but had spent them in planning was obvious to them all.

"Upon the morrow, work to clear the rubble will begin. I deem that there is much salvage which we can use." The King looked around the table, and the others nodded. "Now, those matters attended to, let us enjoy our homecoming and toast to our renewed occupancy."

"I would enjoy it more, Captain, if I had some comely female flesh to warm my couch," Udu grinned, a lusty twinkle in his eye. "The nights were long in prison..."

"I have forsaken all thoughts of women," Gothmog muttered bitterly. "What is the use of it? They can all be taken away as quickly as the others were."

"Do not be so morose and in your cups. A new wench in your bed will put new life in your loins!" Udu replied jovially as he slapped Gothmog on the back.

Weary of this discussion and Udu's continuing attempt to cheer him up, Krak was in the mood to challenge. "My friend, do you forget so quickly all that we lost and suffered?"

"New memories can lessen the sting of the old," Udu offered, bowing his head sympathetically.

"But never take them away entirely," Skri interjected with his usual morbidity. "Sweet oblivion can only be found in the welcoming arms of Mandos."

"I doubt any of us will ever receive that vaunted invitation," laughed Rut.

"We can always be hopeful," Skri said dryly. "Surely if anyone needs cheering, it is Námo, and who can do that better than I?"

"Then Mandos take you and let him be happy!" said Udu, not spitefully.

"Why must you always be talking about Mandos?" asked Krak. "I have no wish to see him."

"We have much in common," replied Skri, raising his goblet in a toast. "Here is to the known and to the unknown, whatever that may be! And to sweet, endless slumbers and blessed oblivion!"

"Go lie with your corpse in her tomb upon the hill," muttered Krak.

"By the Captain's leave, I will, and depart from this dour company!"

"As you will have it," the Captain nodded.

Rising to his feet, Skri bowed and sauntered away, humming a strange little tune to himself. They all watched until he departed, then picked up their goblets again and fell to drinking.

And so the Nazgûl set to work and restored the city as much to the King's own wishes as they were to those of the Master. Sauron remained silent, content for the time that His sons had learned from their deserved punishment. The Great One cared little for the meaningless things which they did to amuse themselves. So when at last the walls and towers had been rebuilt to His satisfaction, He was of a mind to be more lenient. He had matters far more important to consider than the trivial doings of His sometimes wayward sons. There was war against His greedy neighbors to be considered.

***

The sound of the beast's wings as they rose and fell in flight beat a gentle rhythmic pattern in Skri's mind, almost lulling him into slumber. The waxing moon shone in the now clear skies of Rohan and turned the landscape below him into a writhing pattern of moving, crawling bodies, the scene lighted here and there by the torches of those that had been sent out to retrieve the wounded and dead. The shrieks of the dying and the moans of the injured did not disturb his reverie. Krith had long since stopped complaining and rode silently behind him. These were the times when it was good to think and reflect upon all that had passed in the years before.

"A new harvest for Mandos," Skri thought. "How eager they will be to see him! How lucky, how fortunate for them!"

He sensed - even before he saw them - his comrades, and circled his beast above them as they flew to meet him. The creature that he rode dropped in altitude and Skri guided him into what he considered a graceful dive. Krith, though, thought otherwise and let out a loud shriek of complaint.

"Fool!" the surly Ninth bellowed.

"O glad day!" Rut muttered ruefully under his breath. "Krith has returned to us! At least for a time we were free of his whining!"

Then after quiet consultations, the Nine flew quietly towards the east. There was little to be said. They had gained nothing for their troubles save sorrow. Far away in a tall, dark tower awaited their brooding, angry Master and woefully dour would be the day when they met Him once again. Many would be those who would pay and pay dearly for the loss of the Second Battle of Helm's Deep, and the Nazgûl knew that it would be they who fell under the worst of Sauron's ire.


End file.
